


No Winter Lasts Forever

by symmetri



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brainwashing, Drugs, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Iron Man 3, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:20:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 44,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1620626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symmetri/pseuds/symmetri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S.H.I.E.L.D. has fallen.  The Winter Soldier has disappeared.  Steve and Sam team up to hunt for Bucky and deal with the aftermath of the Hydra inflitration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Friday, May 16th, 2014

He prowls slowly through the crowd of laughing tourists and restless children. The security for the back doors of the museum was very lacking, and proved to be the better option if he did not want to cause a scene passing through the metal detectors in front. His cold eyes dart about alertly, efficiently cataloguing exits and the positions of security guards, but he never lifts his head more than an inch during his continuous observations. He moves quickly, fluidly, with purpose, even despite the aching pain in his side. A fractured rib will take longer to heal than his other injuries, he supposes. But he does not have the time to simply wait for his body to repair itself.

He nears his destination, but he is itching to turn around and leave. How long does he have before someone is sent to look for him here?

The long-haired man in the computer store helped him find the location of the exhibit, searching something called “Google.” From watching television in the apartments he broke into, he learned that computers were now the main method of conveying information. He has no memory of ever using a computer, although he thinks he may have seen one once or twice. He has no real memory of television, either, but there is at least a vague cloud of knowledge in his mind that suggests he had once watched television, in some other life. A life that he is now trying to find, despite his reservations.

Hesitantly, he enters the exhibit, noting the amount of small children giggling around him. Apparently, this is a popular place. Security is double in this area, but the guards here are just as unobservant as the ones in the rest of the Air and Space Museum. After all, why would anyone particularly dangerous come to the Captain America exhibit?

Behind several mannequins dressed in military uniforms, there is a large painting on the wall: the Howling Commandos, depicted in all their glory. He dimly recognizes two faces, stares blankly, and moves on.

He inspects the large plaque detailing Project Rebirth. The history and statistics of the target. The target had once been a small man, weighing only 99 pounds. But his face was still the same as that of the capable soldier on the helicarrier.

He turns, and stops.

This portion of the exhibit is less popular than the others. Visitors do not have the time to dwell on such sadness.

His own face stares at him like a large, grainy, black-and-white mirror. He does not like seeing his face in this museum, or even in general, but he reads the description of “Bucky Barnes” anyway. _Sergeant_ Bucky Barnes, the only Howling Commando to have been killed in action during World War II.

Four words stick out in particular. More than all the rest, these four words make his head pound and his throat clench with the agony of not knowing. Death is no surprise, war is no surprise, pain is no surprise. But these four words are.

“Steve Rogers' best friend.”

Whoever James Buchanan Barnes was, the Soldier is not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First fanfic, and of course it's about Bucky Barnes.


	2. Chapter 2

Wednesday, September 3rd, 2014

Ever since the Insight helicarriers crashed into the Potomac, Steve hasn't been the same. A haunted look is always present in his eyes, a furrow in his brow that had not been there before. Captain Rogers was never a man without his skeletons, but now . . . now he's something else. A man possessed.

Sam easily recognizes the desperation in his friend's expression. There's guilt there, as well. Steve no longer feels responsible for Bucky's death, but rather, his current existence. And that's much worse, because the fact that Bucky Barnes is experiencing a living hell is _not Steve's fault._

Sam has tried to reason with him, but he knows when a man's too far gone. Steve won't stop angsting until he's found his long-lost friend.

 _At least it gives him something to do,_ Sam thinks as they turn onto the exit for Chicago. _Although I don't know if a cross-country road trip is the best solution . . ._

So far, they've combed through D.C., scoured the Big Apple, and even hunted around in Philadelphia, of all places. And now here they are, driving through the Windy City, looking for the same ghost.

“Where are we going next if he's not here?” Sam asks, glancing over at Steve. He's driving with a concentrated look on his face, and Sam wonders absentmindedly if Rogers has ever been to Chicago before. Maybe on one of those tours he was talking about. Sam tries to imagine Steve Rogers singing and dancing with a bunch of showgirls, but he can't picture it. Maybe there's film of it in a library or somewhere . . .

“Los Angeles,” Steve says decidedly. “And then up to Seattle if we can't find him there. I think we should have checked Toronto. Maybe we can stop in on the plane ride back.”

“Plane ride?”

“To Moscow.”

Sam stifles a sigh, and looks out the window. The sun is setting, its orange-pink light reflecting off the skyscrapers of downtown. _Show your face already, Winter Soldier,_ Sam wills silently. _I do_ not _want to pop in on Russia at a time like this._

They pull into a parking garage near a hotel in the theatre district. The noise of the city echoes against the concrete walls and Sam wonders how they'll ever find a trained assassin in the millions of people living here. Or anywhere, for that matter.

Steve had assured Sam in New York that Barnes would be there, maybe investigating his childhood home – because his memories were coming back, of course. He wasn't there. Then Steve said that Bucky would instinctively go to another big city and try to hide in the throngs of civilians. The Winter Soldier hadn't done that in Phillie, and chances are that he won't be doing it in Chicago, either.

Chances are, Bucky Barnes is already dead, or worse.

Sam doesn't want to say anything, but the likelihood of Bucky surviving that crash was very slim. The likelihood of the Winter Soldier actually visiting the Smithsonian was even slimmer. And the chance that HYDRA's letting their pet assassin escape with his life or memories is just about zero.

They check into the hotel and ride the elevator up to the fifth floor.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sam asks quietly.

Steve opens his mouth and closes it again. “No. I don't know. Maybe.”

“Probably should,” Sam suggests, hefting the bag with the Falcon EXO-7 in it over his shoulder as they prepare to leave the elevator. They got his wings repaired in New York by none other than Tony Stark himself. Mr. Stark had been recuperating from his whole ordeal with the Mandarin in his just-about-finished skyscraper. He may have given up the Iron Man suits, but he certainly still loves to tinker with technology. Sam wonders if he'd get a kick out of the Winter Soldier's metal arm. Probably.

But no one knows about the Winter Soldier aside from Maria Hill, Director Fury, Natasha Romanoff, and Sam and Steve. Everyone else is either dead or being kept in the dark.

“I know,” Steve sighs. “Not tonight, though.”

Sam nods understandingly and keys into his room. Rogers' already unstable world has been turned upside-down in these past couple of months, and Sam knows how difficult that can be. The Air Force never sent men to kill him, though. He's gotta give Rogers that one.

Sam gets to bed relatively early, but he can't seem to fall asleep just quite yet. He spends about half an hour staring up at the high ceiling of the hotel room, deep in thought. S.H.I.E.L.D. is disbanded, Fury and Romanoff are who knows where, and HYDRA's probably still out there, hiding in the dark. Not once has Sam looked up anything from Romanoff's great data-dump, although he _has_ been tempted to learn who the ex-Russian spy really is. But he figures if he needs to know, she'll tell him – that is, if they ever see each other again.

He rolls over and tries to sleep. He and Steve are going to get up early to start their search, maybe go for a run if they can, for old time's sake. He's looking forward to it. After all, just because the world is upside-down doesn't mean that it's stopped turning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I checked the Avengers and Natasha's last name is, in fact, spelled "Romanoff," although I know that many other sources say it should be "Romanov." Since this is an MCU-based fic, I figured I'd better use the MCU-approved version of the name.


	3. Chapter 3

Thursday, September 4th, 2014

Steve stares out the tall window, wishing that this hotel room had a balcony so that he could step out and feel the night air on his face. The lights of a theater across the street twinkle in the dark, and contented patrons file out the doors, chattering animatedly about whatever show they've just seen. If only life could be that simple for him.

Steve does like to see movies, although now they're all so graphic and very often disturbing. He doesn't really get the appeal of movies about axe murderers, but there are plenty of other more palatable genres out there. World War II is still a big theme in many films; whenever he goes to see one, like the Monuments Men, Steve is reminded a bit of home.

But he's also reminded of Bucky.

Death would have been kinder than what must have happened to his best friend. He'd lost an arm, lost his mind, lost his own free will. Every kind of freedom they had fought for had been taken from him. That's what gets Steve. Bucky Barnes could deal with a metal arm, but he's no longer in control of his actions. HYDRA is, and nothing makes Steve angrier.

He wants to hit the window, but he refrains for fear of shattering the glass. He knows he should talk to Sam. Sam knows what he's doing, he probably knows how to help Steve. But this . . . this anger is the only thing driving him anymore, anger and the hope that he'll find Bucky and somehow, somehow get him to come back to D.C. with him. Not to take him in (where would he even take him in _to,_ he wonders?), but just to help him. Help him remember. Let him heal. Protect him from HYDRA.

He doubts the Winter Soldier ever needed any protection, except perhaps from himself and his handlers. How different the world is now.

But Bucky must be remembering. He could have finished it, killed Steve. He could have very easily killed Steve. But he hesitated. That's what Steve is fighting for, why he's driving across the country, scouring every city for his best friend. Bucky's still in there. Somewhere in that cold, efficient assassin, there's a man named James Buchanan Barnes, who defends the weak from bullies and looks out for his friends when no one else will.

Somewhere in there, Steve's best friend is alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mehhhhhh, short chapter. Next one will be longer, promise!


	4. Chapter 4

Friday, June 20th, 2014

He does not have a name for himself, and as far as he can recall, he has never been called anything but “the asset” and “the soldier.” He assumes that the Soldier is more of a nickname, but he sort of likes it. He understands what soldiers are, and he feels that, in a strange, twisted way, he is one of them. So he is the Soldier.

He does not quite know where to go anymore. New York City is his best bet at learning more about Bucky Barnes, but there is an 87% chance that the Department of Homeland Security is looking for him since he exposed himself in the Air and Space Museum. The risk of tracing Bucky Barnes' footsteps is too high. He does not want to be found.

No doubt his handlers would be very angry with him, as he did not kill Steve Rogers. Not only did he not assassinate the target, but he  _saved_ him from drowning. He still does not quite know why he did that. At that moment, he could only think,  _He can't die._ He does not know why Steve Rogers “couldn't die” on the helicarrier, when the Soldier had been perfectly willing to slice his throat open a day earlier. But somehow, that day, he could not bring himself to finish the man off.

The Soldier did not want to go back.

Memories come to him now, often painfully, and his heart clenches in his chest and his respiration rate increases and he feels very alone and weak. He does not like this feeling, but it means that he is starting to remember. The pain of the memory wipes was already resurfaced in his brain, even before he let Steve Rogers live. If there is one thing he can remember clearly, it is that pain. Biting down obediently on the rubber, feeling himself begin to hyperventilate as the familiar metal wraps around his head, the horrible pain ripping through his skull, drowning in the sound of his own screams—

He does not want to go back.

Even if he kills his target and completes his mission, his handlers will not hesitate to wipe him again. Therefore, he should not kill Steve Rogers. If he does, they will track him down, and the pain will come back. It is as simple as that, really.

The Soldier glances up at the darkening sky. He is not used to feeling tired, but then again, he is not used to feeling much of anything. Still, he knows when he needs to rest. The rib is fully healed, but he has suffered other injuries since – mainly while he was . . . obtaining the nourishment he needs to survive. The assassin has no qualms about stealing.

He looks down a dark alley, his genetically enhanced eyes picking out several huddled shapes in the darkness. For some reason, he finds himself searching for a particular face. The face of the target is not there.

The next alley he sees is emptier, although the neighborhood is much rougher. The sound of fights in apartments above falls down to the Soldier's ears, but he knows very well that he can more than defend himself. He still has two knives and a fully-loaded firearm. It should be more than enough to last him the week, should he run into any trouble.

He slings his backpack off his shoulder and slides to the ground in the corner of the dead-end alley, next to a reeking trash can. Clenching and unclenching his mechanical arm, he tries to relax enough so that he might sleep this time. Adult humans, as a general rule, require eight hours of sleep per night to function adequately. The Soldier requires eight hours of sleep per week to function at his best. But even that little amount is hard to achieve when his brain is pounding with slowly-returning memories and his already uneasy sleep is interrupted with horrific nightmares.

Night has fallen, and the Soldier stares out of the alley and into an endless void.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky checks alleys because of this post [here](http://janesfoster.tumblr.com/post/83686537922/thedoctorknows-sebastillestans-i-was) <3


	5. Chapter 5

Thursday, September 4th, 2014

Sam and Steve meet on the second floor of the hotel for breakfast. Steve loads up his plate with yogurt, toast, fruit, and waffles – even the super soldier needs his strength.

_That metabolism,_ Sam thinks wistfully, taking a bagel and an apple for himself. “Morning run?” he asks hopefully. He's been getting better at keeping up with Steve – for the first mile, at least. He'll admit it, he wants to show off his improvement.

“I don't think so,” Steve replies, glancing unhappily out the window as they sit down to one of the several small tables. “I mean, we're right in the middle of the theatre district.”

“We could drive out to the lake,” Sam suggests, taking a bite of his apple.

Steve smiles sympathetically. “Maybe as a break. We've got to narrow our search down first.”

“Gotcha.”

They finish breakfast in silence. Sam tosses his half-eaten bagel back onto his Styrofoam plate. It doesn't compare to the bagels he gets from two streets down back in D.C. God, he misses home. It'll be at least half a year until they return there – if they manage to get back from this hunt-for-Bucky road trip alive, that is. Still, Sam doesn't regret his decision to help Steve find his lost friend.

“Ready to go?” Steve asks, standing up with his empty plate. He's wearing another one of those ridiculously tight T-shirts again. Sam wonders sometimes if anyone ever tells the guy that girls are just staring at him left and right. Or does he not even notice anymore?

Sam nods, swallowing one last gulp of orange juice, and they go to throw out their trash.

Fifteen minutes later, they're walking out onto the street, ready to go. Sam finishes sticking a gun into the back of his jeans. The valet does a double-take at that, that's for sure.

Steve doesn't say anything, just clenches his jaw and looks ahead. The Cap can't very well carry his shield around the streets of Chicago, so Sam's gun is the only protection they've got until they go back out at night. They always spend a few days scouting out the city during the day before venturing out in the dark to find Bucky when he's most likely to be vulnerable (which he still probably isn't) and somewhat easier to sneak up on.

For the first few hours they simply comb the streets, peering into back alleys and speaking with the homeless. There aren't many in the polished center of the city, but at about two o'clock, they make it to the south side. Plenty of people to talk to here.

Sam keeps his hand close to the inside of his waistband. It reminds him of his childhood neighborhood in New York City, and that's not a good thing.

“Wish I had the Falcon strapped on,” he mutters to Steve, avoiding eye contact with some suspicious-looking guys from across the street. “Feel a whole lot better if I did.”

“Next run,” Steve promises him. “Today we're just scouting, asking around. Not asking for trouble.”

“Uh-huh.”

They come across a man sitting near a pile of rotting cardboard boxes, slowly rocking back and forth, glaring daggers at any passerby from beneath his greasy hair.

“Hello, sir,” Steve says politely, dropping his shoulders so that he appears to be more approachable. His muscular physique can be a bit daunting to people who don't know him. “Do you think you have time to answer a few questions for me?”

The man shakes his head, muttering something under his breath.

Sam takes one of the bagged sandwiches out of his gym bag and hands it to the man. He squints up at Sam suspiciously for a few seconds, but then deftly grabs the sandwich out of his hand. He rips the packaging off and tears into the food like a wild animal.

They let him finish the sandwich, which lasts maybe thirty seconds, tops.

“Can I ask you a few questions?” Steve tries again, his voice kind and gentle.

The homeless man hesitates, and then nods quickly.

“Have you seen a man with a metal arm?” Rogers asks.

The man shakes his head.

“How about a dirty-looking dude with shoulder-length brown hair?” Sam says, trying to help out.

The man begins to laugh, tugging on his own brown hair in response. Maybe that wasn't the best road of inquiry.

“Has anyone just under six foot, blue eyes, dangerous-looking come through this area in the past few weeks?” Steve asks.

It seems like the man's thinking for a few minutes, but he eventually shakes his head again. He eyes Sam's gym bag hungrily.

Out of pity, Sam tosses him another sandwich. “Thanks for your time, sir.”

They leave the homeless man eating, and continue down the sketchy street. Steve sighs dejectedly. Sam knows he's frustrated, but honestly, the captain can't expect much of anything else by this point. They've hit dead end after dead end, and this is just another one.

“Sorry, man,” Sam says, slapping his friend on the back in sympathy. “We'll find him.”

Steve nods, swallowing hard.

_Maybe next time, buddy,_ Sam thinks sadly, _maybe next time._


	6. Chapter 6

Friday, September 5th, 2014

Steve and Sam finally fit in their run, the next morning before the break of dawn. They drive down to Lake Michigan, park near North Avenue Beach, and, after briefly warming up, start running down Lakeshore Drive.

Last night, Steve contacted one of the few S.H.I.E.L.D. agents still operating undercover in the city. They were getting nowhere with the homeless community and Fury had left him with a list of useful contacts for “just in case,” so he decided to call this (ex-) Agent 873-U and ask him for help with Bucky. The agent wouldn't give his name, but promised to do a facial recognition scan through the security cameras on the streets that he's hacked into. They should be getting the results in several hours.

In the meantime, they're running.

Steve cracks his neck as he jogs down the wide sidewalk. Doing a full-on sprint would give him away, although he's sure that several people on the beach have recognized him already. There's not a soul in New York who doesn't recognize Steve's face from the Chitauri invasion. That's partially why Steve chose to move to D.C. – it's closer to the Triskelion (not that it matters anymore) and he's more or less out of the public eye there.

Still, it's nice to work out the kinks in his back, relieve the tension, blow off the steam with some friendly competition with Sam.

Steve glances at the ex-soldier huffing beside him. Sam's been doing a good job keeping up with him. He must feel pretty proud of himself, running beside Captain America. No “on your left”s are coming from Steve today.

They run for an hour, and then cool down afterward, drinking water and looking out at the horizon, where the deep blue of the lake touches the dawn sky. It's a peaceful scene, makes Steve happy to be alive.

He hadn't hesitated to sink the Valkyrie so that he could put an end to HYDRA – entirely a suicide mission – but Steve's glad now that they found him in the ice. He's been given a second chance at life, a chance to spend more time with Peggy and further serve his country. He knows he doesn't have to, but what's the point of him thawing out if he isn't going to do anything with this blessing?

“You wanna have that talk now?” Sam asks quietly.

At first, Steve's going to refuse. They have more important things to focus on than his feelings. But then he thinks about it; if Sam's so insistent about this, that means Steve isn't doing nearly as good a job at hiding his inner turmoil as he thinks he is. Maybe he's interfering with their mission, with finding Bucky. In that case, Sam is the best person to talk to about all this. It's his job.

“Sure,” Steve sighs, taking another swig of water. He taps his fingers on the plastic bottle, making crackling noises with every touch.

“It's hard enough to lose your friend,” Sam says, getting the conversation going. “I might have said at one point that I'd give anything to have Riley back, but I don't know if that's still true. It might actually be worse to see your friend turned into something that you know he's not. I can't imagine how that feels.”

“It sucks,” Steve admits, taking in a deep breath. “It really . . . sucks. It's so hard to think about . . . about everything he's been through. What they've _done_ to him. There's no way he wouldn't remember me if they hadn't messed with his head. I saw what happened to Barton back on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s original helicarrier. He recovered, eventually, but he was still so . . .” Steve breaks off, remembering how Barton used his anger at Loki to cover up his fear and panic. It was only when Natasha found him, lying in a pile of broken glass, that he let some of his emotions show – at least, that's what she'd said. When they were eating shawarma to celebrate Stark's, well, being alive, Barton didn't say anything, just ate and tried to keep himself in control. “I don't want to see Bucky like that,” Steve whispers. “And I don't think a knock on the head is going to cut it for him.”

Sam nods understandingly. “You've got to accept that he's not going to be the same.”

“I know that. I know that.”

“And then you've gotta think, 'what if he never comes back?'” Sam holds up a hand, seeing that Steve wants to interject something. “I know what you're thinking. He might have recognized you there at the end. But you don't know that. Maybe something went wrong with his programming and he hesitated just too long. Maybe he did actually start to remember you. But you've got to plan for the worst.”

Steve thinks about it. “Even if he never remembers . . . he's still Bucky, no matter what. A different Bucky. But he'll still be my best friend, even if I'm not his.”

“Good.”

Steve stands up and stretches his arms. “Come on. Let's get cleaned up,” he says, clearing his throat. He doesn't want to think about any of this anymore. He'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

If he comes to it at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how S.H.I.E.L.D. names its agents, but I did the best I could...


	7. Chapter 7

Sunday, June 22nd, 2014

He wakes from an uneasy sleep to find a man standing over him. The Soldier swears in guttural Russian. Already he is getting soft. Perhaps his handlers had been right to wipe him so often, keep him sharp for each mission.

The Soldier leaps to his feet while drawing one of his knives. He kicks the man against the opposite wall, pins him there with his left arm, and presses the blade of the knife against the man's throat. The Soldier is not even breathing hard. Maybe he is not that soft.

“Fuck, take it easy!” the stranger wheezes. “Hey, I'm sorry, man, just let me go!”

“Who are you?” the Soldier growls, his ice blue eyes flashing dangerously in the low light. He is used to killing first and asking questions later, but homicides that are not covered up by his handlers tend to attract attention. He has been off the grid for several weeks, and he would like to stay that way.

“I'm nobody,” the man whimpers, closing his eyes in anticipation of a horrible and painful death.

The Soldier frowns, disbelieving. “Who do you work for?”

“Shit, you're one of Cory's, aren't you?” the man groans. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Tell him I've got his money. I've got it all here.”

 _Not a pursuer,_ the Soldier decides. _Just_ _clueless._ “I need some of it.”

“Sure, man, take all of it. Just put the goddamn knife away.”

Reluctantly, the Soldier lets the man go. The stranger rubs his neck nervously before digging around in a small duffel bag. He pulls out a couple of rolls of bills, but accidentally lets several waxy bags of a brownish substance fall to the ground. The man scrabbles for the bags and stuffs them back into the duffel, his eyes darting around nervously.

“What is that?” the Soldier demands.

The man wrinkles his nose into the beginnings of a sneer. “What do you mean, what is that?”

“What is this?” His left arm reaches into the duffel and snatches one of the packets. He holds it up, careful not to crush it between his cybernetic fingers.

The stranger squints suspiciously at the Soldier. “You're not one of Cory's guys, are you?”

The Soldier flips his knife threateningly, glaring at the man. His patience has been worn thin during these past two months. He used to be patient, waiting for the opportune moment to go in for the kill. Now he creates that opportune moment for himself, forces an opening. He does not like this change.

“Okay, okay.” The man holds his hands up to prove that he isn't reaching for anything. Even if he did, the Soldier would disarm him and most likely kill him before he could touch a finger to whatever weapon he was carrying. A little pocket knife, perhaps.

“For the last time, what is that?” the Soldier growls.

“That's heroin,” the man says slowly, ruffling a hand through his greasy blond hair and looking at the Soldier as if he were crazy. Which he supposes he sort of is.

The Soldier gives the man a blank look. He has not encountered this on any of his missions, at least not the ones he can remember. The ones he does remember involve blood and death and the screams of his victims. The Soldier shakes his head. He does not want to remember.

“It's a drug?” The stranger raises an eyebrow at the Soldier's confused expression. “I'd offer you some, but it's fuckin' expensive . . .”

The Soldier understands drugs. In his experience, they have not done anything good. But he senses that he is familiar with others, ones that his handlers have not used to subdue him. Maybe heroin is one of them.

“What does it do?” the Soldier demands, moving closer to the man.

“Whoa, man, take it easy,” the stranger says, pressing himself back against the wall. “It's a _drug._ You get all doped up. It's a fucking narcotic.”

Narcotic. Psychoactive, pain-relieving drugs, typically associated with opioids. Somehow, the Soldier is familiar with this term. He must have read it in a mission brief at some point. At this point, he does not care. In his hand, he holds a powerful painkiller, something that could free him from the aching in his brain.

The Soldier tilts his head, interested. He inspects the wax bag more closely. He assumes that one would somehow ingest this substance. Do you eat it?

“Listen, you've got to pay for—” The stranger gulps mid-sentence at the dangerous expression on the Soldier's face.

“I will let you live,” the Soldier decides in a casual drawl. “What do you do with this?”

The man sighs, wondering how he's going to explain this to the others. Maybe he'll actually tell the truth, show them this freak show with the metal hand. They'll have to believe him if they see proof, right?

The Soldier tries again. “What do you do with this?”

“Well, _I_ usually shoot it, but you might consider smoking it,” the stranger babbles. “Here, let me reach into the bag – I won't try anything, promise – and I'll help you, 'kay?”

Hesitantly, the Soldier nods. He watches closely as the man reaches into the duffel and pulls out a toilet paper tube, a lighter, and a piece of aluminum foil.

“Convenient,” the Soldier remarks.

“Was gonna get high somehow tonight, anyway,” the stranger mutters sheepishly. “Here, lemme show you how to do it.”

Ten minutes later, the Soldier is feeling much better than he has in a very long time. A numbness has washed over him and a mild euphoria has taken hold of him. Finally, he has found an escape from the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: Don't do drugs, kids.


	8. Chapter 8

Friday, September 5th, 2014

Sam sits on the edge of his bed, the Falcon EXO-7 spread out next to him. Its wingspan is so large that the tips of the mechanized wings nearly touch the walls of the hotel room. He's currently experimenting with the new modifications that Stark managed to stick in, despite Sam's protests. He always knew Iron Man was a stubborn guy, but he didn't think he'd ever have the chance to confirm that fact.

He's got to admit, the new-and-improved Falcon is pretty sweet. The wing release is several seconds faster, and Stark said it'll go at least another two hundred feet into the air before the security lock sends him gliding down to a safer altitude. Could be useful, if he ever gets the chance to use it again.

Right now they're waiting for the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, Agent 800-Something-Or-Other, to get back to them about the facial recognition scan. It should be any minute now. But in the meantime, Sam needs some time alone. Steve's great and all, but sometimes the brooding can get to him. It's nice to just sit back and have some time to think.

Sam's phone rings, and he digs it out of the bag next to him. Unlisted number.

 _That can't be good,_ he thinks. But it could be the agent – actually, no, it couldn't. Sam never gave him his number. He was supposed to call Rogers instead.

“Hello?” Sam answers cautiously. It's not like anyone can do anything to him through the phone. And if they've got his phone number, they (whoever “they” might be) can theoretically already be tracking him. No use in just letting it ring.

“Sam Wilson?” a feminine voice asks.

“Yeah, who's this?”

“It's Natasha Romanoff.”

Sam's eyes widen. “Black Widow?”

“Yes.” She sighs noisily. She doesn't like being called that unless she's on a mission, but Sam personally thinks it's a cool-ass name. Hell yeah, he's calling her Black Widow.

“Hey, how you doin'?” he says, playing it cool. Steve's told him, repeatedly, that she already has a thing with another guy, but it doesn't hurt to try. Plus, who the hell would ever let themselves be called Hawkeye? At least “Falcon” is a  _cool_ bird-themed name.

“I'm fine. How are you?” she asks reluctantly. She sounds friendly enough, but maybe pressed for time.

“Great. What can I do you for?”

“How is he?”

Steve. “He's . . . struggling,” Sam admits quietly. “It's hard on him.”

“Tell him to hang in there for me.”

“Sure.”

There's silence for a few moments, and Sam looks at his phone. Did she just hang up on him?

But finally, she speaks. “Any sign of the Winter Soldier?”

“Nothing yet,” Sam tells her. “We're meeting with a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent today for some more information, though. The guy may have been caught on camera again. Who knows.”

Natasha's voice is sharp. “Which agent?”

“Dunno, won't give us his name. Wouldn't even show his face. We Skyped him a little while ago.”

“Be careful. He could be HYDRA.”

“Doubt it,” Sam says, retracting the wings of the Falcon with the push of a button. “Nobody's come for us yet and we've been here for a day since we last talked to this guy. If he were gonna send HYDRA goons after us, he would've done it by now.”

“I'm glad you're so confident,” Natasha says drily. “Well, let me know if you find anything.”

“What, are you going to report to Fury or something?” Sam asks, curious. “Do you still do that? Like, is he still your boss even though S.H.I.E.L.D.'s dead?”

“It hasn't been completely gutted yet,” she replies. “Fury's not my boss anymore, but that doesn't mean that S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't still kicking. I've heard that there are still a few compounds left. The Fridge has been reclaimed, and many of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s safe houses are still, well, safe. Including your buddy's in Chicago, apparently.”

Sam nods to himself. “Good to know.”

“So, you'll tell me if you find something?”

“Yeah, yeah. How's, uh, whatever it is you're doing?”

“Fine.” No elaboration. Typical. “I've gotta go. Thanks, Sam.”

“Sure thing,” he says, but she has already hung up the phone. She's as flighty as they come, that one.

He stuffs his cellphone back into his bag and then goes back to inspecting the Falcon. It's all in one piece, ready for action. He hasn't flown since the collapse of Project Insight. That must have been . . . more than four months ago. He can't wait to stretch his wings – get it? – again.

Sam carefully packs up the Falcon. He's grown fond of it over the summer, and he isn't letting any more harm come to it. The wings had to be replaced since the Winter Soldier tore off one and Sam had ejected the other. Luckily, they found some spares back at the base they raided before interrogating Jasper Sitwell. It seems like so long ago now.

And as much as Sam would love to give that Cold War relic a very strict talking-to (or even more) for hurting his baby, he knows how much Bucky means to Steve. Sam would never hurt Steve that way.

Also, the Cap could totally whup his ass in less than fifteen seconds.

There's a sharp rap on his door. Just in case, Sam walks over and peers out the peephole to find himself staring at Steve's oversized chest.

“Hey,” Sam says, opening the door. “What's up?”

Steve's hair is still wet from his shower. “He says he's just about ready to show us the scan results,” he says, his eyes full of excitement and hope. “How soon—”

“I'll be down in five,” Sam replies quickly. “Gotta get my shirt on first.”

“Five minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam laughs, glad to see Steve so happy. He closes the door and sets about getting dressed. Maybe the paranoid agent _did_ find something. A greasy-haired, metal-armed dude skulking around a 7-11 or something.

 _Not like he'd still be here even if he_ was _in the city_ _at some point,_ Sam thinks, _but worth a shot anyhow. Maybe it'll be a recent picture._

Usually, Sam just waits until Steve decides to call it quits and then they continue the search in the next city. But Steve's smile has got him excited this time.

Maybe there still is hope for Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me and my short chapters - next one will be longer, promise!


	9. Chapter 9

Friday, September 5th, 2014

They wait outside the door of the apartment for several minutes while the agent inside runs all the necessary security scans. Steve doesn't really know how necessary they are, but it's better safe than sorry, what with all the S.H.I.E.L.D.-but-really-HYDRA agents running around. Steve just hates how paranoid everyone has to be in this day and age. He'd always thought of technology as this great solution to the world's problems, but it seems to have caused more trouble than it's worth.

Finally, they are let inside. Just as he had during the video conference, the agent hides his face behind a ski mask – which would look rather suspicious on anyone except for this 5'3, nervous wreck of a man. Clearly, he had never really been out on the field before, and the Triskelion incident had badly shaken him up.

 _No one can trust anyone anymore,_ Steve thinks sadly as he and Sam step inside. _It's a real shame._

“It's not much, but the scan should be enough to narrow your search down,” the agent mutters, leading them to a room filled to the brim with computers. Displays are fastened to the wall, nearly overlapping each other, and small servers have been stuffed underneath several desks. Five fans blow continuously, cooling the place down and ruffling the papers between keyboards. It's a messy place, but somehow the agent knows exactly where everything is. He plops himself down in a rolling chair and slides over to a particular monitor.

“Thank you again,” Steve says, gratitude resonating deep within him. “This means a lot to me.”

Agent 873-U laughs nervously. “Anything I can do for Captain America,” he responds, his fingers clacking rapidly on two keyboards at once. “Really, my pleasure.”

Steve has no idea what the agent is doing with the various programs running on the other screens, but he appreciates how skilled this man must be to be doing whatever it is he does. Steve knows that he himself is an intelligent guy, but even so, the Internet took him quite a while to get the hang of. Sam tells him that he still types like a grandma, even after several years of trying his best to get up-to-date. Still, it doesn't particularly bother him. There's so much to experience in this digital world, and he's not in any hurry to master the whole of technology in a few short years.

“Here we go,” the agent says at last. “I haven't had a chance to inspect the results myself, what with . . . er, everything I'm doing . . . I don't know what level of clearance you both are, so I – well, I suppose it doesn't matter now, but protocol, you know . . .” He trails off, distracted with the data streaming across the screen in front of him.

“What are we looking at?” Sam asks, and Steve feels a small burst of relief that he isn't the only one who's confused.

The ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agent hits a few keys and all the numbers and codes simplify themselves into a still fairly complicated list. “Well, these are the names of the cameras that we've managed to capture,” he explains. He seems excited at the prospect of teaching Captain America about his work. “And next to the names are the data logs, like how much of the footage we've got and other statistics. We have about . . . I'd say two weeks or so. I hope that's enough for you.”

“Is there some sort of program you have to run?” Steve asks. “For the facial recognition scanning, I mean?”

“It's already running in the background,” the agent says, waving his hand dismissively. “It's been going since about midnight last night. It's not like the lightning-fast renderings you see on the spy shows, things like this take time.”

Steve nods, beginning to tap his foot impatiently. “Will it finish soon?”

“It's just finishing up now.” Agent 873-U presses a few keys and suddenly a new display pops up on the screen. Steve can more easily understand this, since it's almost entirely visual. It looks more like his old mission briefs than the data that Natasha is familiar working with.

On the right, there's a picture of Bucky. Old Bucky. Steve involuntarily clenches his fists, feels his throat begin to close up. He forces himself to look at the photo of the Winter Soldier underneath. A candid shot, like the one from the Soviet file – what Bucky will look like on the street cameras. Then, on the left, there are a series of blurry images with possible matches squared off in red. It looks like they sort themselves into different groups based on probability percentage.

It's not as fancy a program as the one Stark ran for them in New York, but this one seems more efficient at narrowing down the matches than Tony's was. It's good to know that, despite his bragging, Stark doesn't know absolutely _everything_ about technology.

Steve takes a closer look at the images and his heart nearly stops beating.

It's a horribly grainy picture of a man frozen mid-turn. A strong wind must have been blowing that day, because the man's hood has been blown back on his head, revealing more of his face. His posture is hunched and defensive, and he's warily looking over his shoulder. He has a beard and his hair is longer here, but luckily it's been swept away from his face. Had it not, it's likely the program wouldn't have found him.

But the face. The haunted face, so familiar. So different, but yet so similar to the memories still circling around and around in Steve's mind.

Without a doubt, it's Bucky.

“That's it, that's him,” Steve manages to gasp out.

“Where was this?” Sam demands.

“This image was taken from the feed of a security camera outside a Bank of America on Ashland. That's in Englewood,” the agent replies, typing furiously on a different computer. He brings up an address and full report on the location. “Here.” He prints out the page and hands it to Steve.

“Thank you so much,” Steve says fervently, shaking the man's hand. “I don't know what I can do to repay you.”

“You're an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” the agent says simply. “But if you don't mind me asking, why exactly are you looking for the Winter Soldier?”

So he hasn't made the connection between Bucky and the Russian assassin yet.

Steve and Sam exchange a long look. _Don't tell him,_ Sam seems to be saying to him. _Don't you dare tell him._

Steve tells him anyway. “His real name is Bucky Barnes.”

The look on the agent's face is priceless, but Steve isn't laughing. The man stutters and sputters and has to take a few seconds before he can form a coherent sentence. _“The_ Bucky Barnes? The Howling Commando? Your— who _died?_ ” he exclaims.

“Zola experimented on him,” Steve explains curtly.

Apparently those four words are enough to clear up the agent's confusion. “Oh,” he gasps. After an awkward pause, he says, “I'm so sorry.”

“Thanks,” Steve sighs, and then looks at the picture again. His Bucky.

_We're coming to find you, Buck. Just hang in there._

 

~

 

Night has fallen. They dress in dark colors to blend in – Sam in black and Steve in navy blue. He has yet to wash the black pants and T-shirt he wore in Philadelphia. They probably reek. If it were any other night, Steve's sure that Sam would make a snarky comment about how Captain America can't wear anything but red, white, and blue.

But tonight, they're close.

Although he originally thought Bucky would be huddled in some dark alley in the center of the city, Steve can see why he would end up in Englewood. He hears a shot every once in a while as he prowls through the neighborhood, and he tenses his muscles as a reflex. Bucky shot him several times and Steve still managed to pull through, but even the Rebirth serum can't stop a bullet to the heart.

He's wearing his shield on his back and carrying nothing else so that he isn't weighed down if it comes to a chase. Sam has packed two handguns, and although normally Steve isn't one to advocate unnecessary violence, he's glad for the backup. Sam's a better shot than he is due to ungodly natural talent, and it's always good to have air support.

Steve's sharp eyes pick out Sam's shape high above him in the night sky. The soldier swoops through the air, occasionally giving a quiet whoop. He's ecstatic just to be flying again. Steve can't help but smile at the sight, despite the possible danger of their situation.

They've been searching the streets for several hours now, but they have yet to find any trace of Bucky. So far, Steve has managed to avoid any conflict on the ground. Whether it's because he looks big and strong or because potential attackers are scared off by the sight of the shield on his back, he doesn't know. Maybe word of Captain America has spread even into the rougher neighborhoods now, although it's not like he's some vigilante.

Whatever the reason, he's glad of it. He expects a fight from Bucky, even though there's nothing he wants less than to battle his best friend again. Some small part of Steve hopes that Bucky will have fully regained his memories and will run into his open arms, a little worse for wear but still the same old kid from Brooklyn.

 _What does Sam think of all this?_ Steve wonders absentmindedly as he glances down a dark street. They've been searching in ever-larger circles expanding out from the bank where Buck was originally spotted by the security camera.

Sam's been a bit quieter than usual lately. It could be out of respect for Steve's troubles, which is a bit unnecessary, but the sentiment is appreciated. Or . . . Sam might think that Steve doesn't value their friendship as much as he wants to find Bucky again.

Bucky Barnes was and always will be Steve's best friend. They grew up together, defended each other, fought with each other. Bucky died right before Steve's eyes. Steve will always consider him his best friend.

But Sam Wilson is the guy that Steve can count on. He's his right-hand man. They may not have the history that he and Bucky have, but they've shared some life-shattering experiences together. Sam is invaluable to him as both a wingman and a friend, and Steve hopes he understands that.

 _Of course he does,_ he thinks to himself. _He's lost Riley. Riley was his guy. It's the same exact situation on his side of things. Well, maybe not, but close enough._ But Steve resolves to say something to Sam after tonight anyway, just in case.

“Cap, you got anything?” Sam asks over the comms that they'd borrowed from Stark.

“Not yet,” Steve replies. “See anything up there?”

“Sorry, Cap,” he answers. “I'll let you know when I do. Man, you gotta try these wings out sometime.”

“I haven't exactly been trained,” Steve laughs quietly.

“We'll take a weekend sometime. Could be useful.”

“Could be.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence as Captain America prowls the streets and Falcon soars in the sky.

Steve glances down yet another alleyway, but stops in his tracks. There's a glint of something silvery in the back of the alley. It could be nothing. It probably is nothing. It's more likely that it's light reflecting off of the shiny lid of a trash can than anything else.

But it could be, _could be_ something.

“I'm gonna go check this out,” Steve whispers to Sam.

"You want me to come down?"

"Maybe to the roof."

Sam doesn't say anything, just grunts as he changes direction. Steve only tells him to land if he's sure that he saw something. And he's been wrong plenty of times, but this time they have the best lead since they tapped the security camera feeds from the Smithsonian.

Bucky has been here. And it's possible – very unlikely, though – that this silver glint is his metal arm.

Steve creeps down the alley, his feet silent on the pavement. He doesn't expect anything much. His heart is still pounding in his chest, but it pounded the same way in D.C. and New York when he'd searched for Bucky there.

 _Don't get your hopes up, don't get your hopes up,_ he chants silently to himself, inching forward.

He takes his shield off his back and holds it in front of him as a precaution. If he startles Bucky – if it even _is_ Bucky – it's probable that the soldier will begin attacking him the moment he sees his former target.

But as he approaches the silver glint, Steve's heart falls. It really is just a trash can lid in a pile of garbage.

“Damn it,” Steve whispers.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Sam. False alarm, that's all,” he sighs. “I'll come out in a minute.”

“Alright, I'll be in the air, then, if that's alright with you,” Sam replies. He sounds apologetic over the comms line.

“Yeah, sure.”

Steve hooks his shield back into place. He just wants to hit something. He looks around for a dumpster to kick, but instead his eyes lock onto a door in the side of one of the buildings bordering the alley. It's just a plain metal door with a sliding grate and probably leads to a gang's hideout or something equally sketchy. It's what has been graffitied on the door that makes Steve Rogers do a double-take.

A red star.

It could be anything, really. A gang sign, someone testing to see if their spray paint worked, anything. But for Steve, it's a small glimmer of hope. He's spent enough time studying the Winter Soldier's file to know that he has a similar star painted on the shoulder of his cybernetic arm.

 _He's not in there, I shouldn't even be wasting my time,_ Steve thinks, but he begins to move toward the door anyway. He's a bit dazed and his restless sleep last night isn't helping him any.

He reaches up to touch the star, to check if it's really there and not just the product of wishful thinking, lack of sleep, and a wistful imagination. No, it's there. It's real.

“Steve, where you at?” Sam asks, his voice buzzing in Steve's ear.

“I'm just going to check this out,” Steve says quietly. “You don't have to come down again, I'm sure I'll be right out again.”

“Out? Where are you going _in?”_

“There's a door here,” Steve clarifies, his voice getting stronger. He's in control of himself now. Grounded again. “I want to see what's inside, maybe ask around if anyone's home, see if Bucky's been here.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” says Sam.

Steve waits, and then hears a crash behind him. He whips around, pulling his shield onto his arm – to find Sam picking himself up off the ground near the trash can lid that had originally drawn Steve's attention.

“Sam, what the—”

“You're not going in there alone,” he says firmly. “No way.”

There's no point in arguing, and why would he? Having backup is better than not. “Thanks,” Steve says simply, and then turns back towards the door.

He tries the handle. Locked. He takes a few steps back, and in one fluid motion, kicks the door open with a bang.

Steve glances back at Sam, who has already drawn his gun and is pointing it at the ground in front of him with a steady hand. Sam gives him a sharp nod, and then they enter the building.

Steve nearly gags at the stench. Stale beer, cigarette smoke, rot, and plenty of other nasty smells must have been building up here for a while. Not a pleasant place, but he hadn't expected anything different. Steve peers through the dark and finds that they're in a stairway.

They take the steps slowly, making no sound on the stained carpet. They turn around a corner and Steve can see a light from ahead. He motions for Sam to stay behind him and they continue down the stairs. Steve hefts his shield into place, just in case.

He peeks through the doorway at the bottom of the stairs. It looks like a dark, empty room. Whoever usually lives here isn't in tonight. Empty beer bottles litter the floor, boxes are stacked in the corners, and mostly-empty drug bags are strewn across the table in the center of the room. A deck of cards has been scattered to the floor, either as a result of clumsiness or conflict.

Steve makes the hand signal for clear, and they cautiously enter the room. Luckily, no one's hiding on the other side of the wall, waiting to spring on the intruders. The sound of the door being forced upon would have alerted anyone inside to their presence, but no one's attacking. Sam begins to search the room for evidence of Bucky.

Steve's about to turn around and leave when he sees an open door leading to back room. Maybe they can find someone to question there.

More confident now, Steve approaches the doorway and peers inside. The room appears to be some sort of storage closet-turned-living area. There's a semi-deflated air mattress on the floor next to several creepy-looking teddy bears that Steve suspects have been filled with cocaine or heroin.

There's a figure slumped in the corner, passed out from drinking, or maybe drugs. In either case, he's the perfect person to question.

Steve comes out of the closet. “Is there anyone else here?” he asks Sam.

“Place is empty,” Sam replies. Then he frowns. “Wait, so you found someone, then?”

“Unconscious. Might try talking to him.”

Sam nods and follows Steve into the back room. Steve approaches the man in the corner slowly, as to not yet wake him, while Sam fumbles around for the light switch.

The lights flicker on.

The man's eyes are open. He wasn't asleep – just very, very high. The hood of his jacket casts a shadow over his face, and he's constantly shivering, twitching, shuddering – practically convulsing. The poor guy's nearly overdosed. His hands are clenched tight in his lap. On one hand his knuckles are scuffed and bleeding, his fingernails dirty and ragged. The other hand—

There's a glint of silver.

Steve gasps aloud.

Because under that long, greasy hair and scruffy, dirty beard is his face. _His_ face.

“Bucky?” Steve whispers.

The Winter Soldier jerks his head back at the sound of Steve's voice, staring at him with those same baleful eyes from when they stared each other down on the roof in April. Steve expects him to get up, fight him, take out a knife and try to slice his throat open, but he doesn't.

The man who was Bucky squeezes his bloodshot eyes shut and cowers against the wall, his fingers clawing at his face in agitation and despair. He was once a good man, then a ruthless soldier, and now he's pitiful.

There is no fight in him anymore.

And it breaks Steve's heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I snickered way too much writing "Steve comes out of the closet." And awww, poor Buck. <3


	10. Chapter 10

Tuesday, September 16th, 2014

He wakes up slowly, his head reeling and pounding and aching like it never has before. It is not quite as painful as the memory wipes, but it is very, very close.

 _They have me again,_ he thinks, unwilling to open his eyes and face the dim interior bank vault again. At least they have not yet put him back into cryo again. He recovered his memories of cryostasis while using heroin for the fifth time.

He can clearly remember each time he used. He can easily count the number of times he has managed to escape reality. But he no longer knows the day of the month or even the day of the week. He was never told the year, but managed to gather that it was 2014 from his travels through the 21st century. He still believes that it is 2014, but he no longer can remember whether it is summer or fall. Maybe it is winter by now.

Reluctantly, he opens his eyes.

And promptly shuts them again.

The light is too bright. Blinding. Scorching his retinas. He turns his face to the side and squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he can to get the darkness back.

He could stay like this forever, lying on what seems to be a bed. It is softer than the sleeping arrangements he is used to. He does not like it.

He twitches his right hand. It is constrained by something metal – a handcuff. He jerks his left arm, but it is similarly constrained. He could easily break out of these bonds, but if he wants to be successful in his escape, he must first open his eyes and take in his surroundings.

The Soldier sighs resignedly and opens his eyes wide, letting the light blind him. He blinks quickly until he adjusts to the brightness. Then he slowly turns his head back so that it faces straight.

He is propped up on a bed, looking out into some sort of temporary medical unit. Plastic flaps hang around the small area, concealing him from the rest of – wherever he is. An empty IV bag hangs from its stand nearby, and he can see that, judging from the band-aid on his forearm, there was a needle in his vein at one point. Someone must have pulled it out recently, as he is now awake.

They want him awake. And alive, apparently.

He is connected to a silent hospital monitor, but he does not mind. He calmly observes the screen. His heart is beating at 35 beats per minute. Normal. His blood pressure is a healthy, typical 90/60. He does not appear to have been harmed since his last drug use.

He knows he took too much. No one was around and he did more heroin than was necessary. He just wanted to feel something. Now he feels nothing.

He should be in much more pain than he is. Dom had explained to him the effects of withdrawal and made it very clear how painful it would be. The Soldier was never worried about the pain, but he expects to at least feel _some_ of it. Perhaps it has not been long enough for him to withdraw. Or perhaps it has been a very long time.

He is finding it very difficult to remember what exactly happened. He was in the storeroom. He had nearly overdosed, but was not particularly worried about it. And then he woke up here.

Something is missing. He searches through his mind, picking apart his memories. He has gotten very good at it during his search for his identity. Over in this section of his mind, he has his basic training. Over there, the memory wipes and his handlers. In this part, he is slowly building a timeline of what has happened to him, including the basic outlines of his missions. In that corner, there is a list of all the people he has killed, but not their faces. The faces have long since blurred. There were so many of them.

There it is: there was someone whispering at him in the hideout. He was high, so he does not recognize the face now. Whoever it was said something, and then knocked him out with a single, very clean punch. Good form, he remembers that.

The Soldier turns away from the monitor and stares out past the end of the bed. The plastic flaps have been separated slightly and he can see down a cement tunnel. It appears that he is in an abandoned sewer system, although common sense tells him that the smell is not bad enough for it to ever have been used. He has been around plenty of sewage since he failed to kill Steve Rogers.

He still does not remember much about his target. He can remember hanging off a train on a mountain, fighting for a grip on some metal hold. Steve Rogers is there in his head, yelling for him to hold on, an arm outstretched, reaching, reaching, coming short. Then he is falling. It is very cold.

The Soldier closes his eyes again. He does not want to remember, but he also does not want to forget.


	11. Chapter 11

Tuesday, September 16th, 2014

Sam looks around the bunker, recalling the last time he was here. HYDRA was still in control of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Project Insight was just about to be launched. And they were the only ones who could stop it.

That was a solid threat, something they could fight against and win. Barnes? Not so much.

When Steve had found him, Sam almost couldn't believe it. The man had been absolutely filthy and so high on dope that he hadn't even resisted when Steve knocked him out cold. Sam had trouble believing the same guy had torn apart the Falcon and knocked him hurtling of off the Insight helicarrier just a few months before.

They'd brought Barnes back to the hotel room, cleaned him up while he was still unconscious, and kept him that way with prescription painkillers until they could find a thiopental drip to commandeer. It's amazing what hospital nurses will do for you when they're presented with the fine specimen of a man that is Captain Rogers. He has a heartbreaker's smile.

Now they're in the D.C. bunker, the “sewer system” built for the sole purpose of serving as a S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house.

 _Not really a house,_ Sam thinks. _More like a safe tunnel, to be honest._

Barnes is handcuffed to the bed where Fury had recovered. The cuffs were Steve's idea. He might be sentimental, but he sure isn't stupid.

Steve's sitting at the table, drumming his fingers on its surface and staring off into space. For the first few days, he watched over Barnes constantly, monitoring his condition and helping the unconscious man through withdrawal. It was horrible to see, but no doubt it would have been worse had Barnes been awake for the process. Of course, now they risked getting the Winter Soldier addicted to barbiturates, but hopefully he would be able to deal for the time being.

“You want coffee?” Sam asks, heading over to the coffee maker. He glances back over his shoulder at the silent solider.

It takes Steve a moment to realize that he's been asked a question. He shakes his head, coming back out of his thoughts. “Nah, I'm alright,” he replies.

“You seem kinda out of it.”

Steve just nods and goes back to thinking, resting his chin on his hands.

The guy's got a lot to think about. Their mission's over. Barnes is in their custody, safe. Now they've got to make a new plan. And neither Sam nor Steve has any idea of where they should start.

Sam turns around and suddenly Steve's staring at him.

“What, do I have something on my face?” Sam asks jokingly. He feels a little uncomfortable under such a piercing gaze. It's like Rogers is looking into his head sometimes. Forget about his excessive patriotism, Captain America is deceptively intuitive and can see right through your bullshit any day.

“You can leave if you want, Sam,” the captain says quietly. “I can never repay you for helping me – twice. I can't thank you enough.”

“What do you mean, leave?” Sam demands. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“We've got Bucky.”

“Do we really, though?”

Steve's silent, and Sam wishes he hadn't been so flippant about Barnes' mental state.

“Where else do I have to be?” Sam says in a much gentler tone. “I'm called off of work for like, a year, so as long as you're feeding me, I'm here.”

Rogers gives him a half-smile, which is pretty much as good as it gets these days. “Thanks, Sam,” he says.

“Nah, man. It's what friends do.”

“Still.”

Sam turns away with a contented grin on his face. Captain America's always so sincere about everything. It's one of the best things about him, aside from his idealistic nature and kickass combat skills. People just aren't like that anymore – none of them are that honest or polite. Sometimes Sam wonders if the people living in the Forties were as disadvantaged as they're made out to be in history books. Sure, there was polio and boiled cabbage, but it was also a simpler time. There were the good guys and there were the bad guys, instead of all these fifty shades of gray guys.

Sam takes a long drink from his coffee mug. “He's probably awake by now,” he remarks offhandedly, watching Steve's reaction out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, getting up from his seat at the table. “I'll go try to talk to him.”

“Want me to come with?”

“No, I got it. You enjoy your coffee,” Steve says.

“Mm, I will.”

Sam looks after Steve as he ambles down the tunnel to the little medical area where Sam met Nick Fury for the first time. It's a good thing that Deputy Director Hill shared the passcode and coordinates to this secret base with them, or they wouldn't have had anywhere to go with the unconscious Winter Soldier. It's not like they could just check into a hospital and say that they've got insurance coverage for a Soviet-era amnesiac assassin hooked on heroin.

Hopefully some of Barnes' memories will begin to resurface, like Steve claims that they're already doing. Because if they don't . . .

Sam doesn't even want to think about that possibility.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve and Bucky finally speak! :3

Tuesday, September 16th, 2014

Steve takes a long, deep breath before pushing aside the plastic flaps concealing Bucky's medical setup. This is probably going to be one of the longest, most heartbreaking conversations of his life – and he's had more than his fair share already. He thinks he's prepared himself for it, but really, when are you ever really prepared for talking to your formerly-dead best friend who has lost all memory of you?

He shakes his head. Sarcasm is not going to help him here.

Steve pushes through the flaps, feeling Bucky's eyes on him the second he steps inside the enclosure. Steve doesn't look at him just quite yet. In a way, it's like approaching a wild animal. You have to give him his space, avoid eye contact, walk up to him slowly, and make yourself as un-threatening as you possibly can.

Steve quickly checks the monitor. Bucky's vitals are good, even if his blood pressure and heart rate are uncommonly low. Steve expects his are the same way; Stark – that is, Howard Stark – had told him that his metabolism had dramatically increased after the serum was administered, but at the same time, his primary vitals (heart rate, blood pressure, body temperature, and respiratory rate) had plunged. As a result, every doctor he encountered did a double take before treating him, believing him to be seriously ill. Although really, they should know better – nothing was ever really normal around Captain America.

He takes a seat and another deep breath before looking up.

Bucky's staring at him silently. He isn't straining against the handcuffs, so he's either okay with his situation for the time being, or he's just waiting until Steve's guard is down to break away and make a run for it.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says in a low, rough voice. He clears his throat, a little embarrassed. He can't cry yet.

Bucky doesn't say anything, just stares, showing no emotion.

And Steve doesn't know where to start. He already tried to tell Bucky who he was on the helicarrier, so maybe that's not the best way to go. Granted, it wasn't the best time, as Bucky was trying to kill him and he was trying to stop HYDRA from killing millions of people.

 _Whatever happened to no sarcasm?_ Steve thinks, smiling wryly to himself.

“How long?”

Steve snaps his head up. It looks like Bucky didn't even say anything, but Steve knows what he heard. It takes him a while to reply, though.

“You've been unconscious for eleven days, here for eight,” he answers, relieved to hear that his voice is relatively even. “You'll probably . . . er, have to use the bathroom soon, as a matter of fact.”

“It is unlikely,” Bucky replies without any inflection whatsoever, “unless I did not vomit during detoxification and you have been giving me excessive amounts of fluid during the past eight days.” His eyes, which had once been full of anguish on the helicarrier, are now dead, devoid of any light.

 _He's just woken up,_ Steve assures himself. _He'll be different in a few hours. Possibly better . . . but also possibly worse._

“Alright, then,” Steve says awkwardly. He looks down at his hands, which are twisting together in agitation. He stills them. “Do you . . . do you remember anything?”

Bucky looks away, his jaw working. When he answers, he does so reluctantly. “Your name is Captain Steve Rogers, although you are better known as the World War II icon Captain America. You were the leader of the Howling Commandos, a select group of the 107th that took down much of the Nazis' HYDRA division. You were frozen in a classified area of the northern tundra for approximately 70 years until you were discovered by the Strategic Homeland Enforcement, Intervention, and Logistics Division. You participated in the Avengers Initiative shortly afterward and have been working as an agent for the organization ever since.” He recites it all like a bored schoolboy reading from a textbook. Cold. Unattached. Robotic, even.

“That's . . . detailed,” Steve exhales. “Where did you read that?”

“Your exhibit.”

Steve laughs sadly. “Of course you did,” he says bitterly. At least it's something.

Bucky tilts his head, not understanding Steve's reaction. But he doesn't say anything. He seems to be pretty good at that.

Sighing, Steve runs a hand through his short hair. “What do you remember about _you,_ Bucky?” he asks, locking eyes with the Winter Soldier.

He doesn't say anything for a very long time, and Steve looks away. It's just about hopeless.

“The train.”

Steve stares. Bucky isn't looking at him anymore. His eyes are closed and his fists are clenched, the gears in his metal arm working.

“Falling,” Bucky whispers. “There were doctors. It was cold.”

He pauses for several minutes, and Steve wonders if he should say something. Maybe he's fallen asleep?

“Killing people, lots of them.” His voice is an angry hiss now. “Mission reports. Biting down on the rubber and the pain and--” He chokes off and looks away unhappily, his arms jerk against the metal cuffs, but he doesn't rip through them. Yet.

“Bucky?” Steve's voice is higher than he would normally like, but he's beyond caring at this point. Bucky's coming out of his shell, starting to remember and process his thoughts, but it's not what Steve thought it would be like. For Bucky, remembering is not necessarily a good thing.

He's in pain.

Bucky's clenching his jaw and his eyes are squeezed shut. He's shaking.

“Bucky, what did they do to you?” Steve whispers, reaching out to touch Bucky's hand. But he doesn't. He can't. He shouldn't.

“I don't know,” Bucky whispers, and his voice is broken.

Breaking through his hesitation, Steve reaches out and puts his hand on Bucky's arm, trying to comfort him.

The change is immediate. The man stiffens and his eyes regain the cold glare of the assassin. The ice of the Winter Soldier.

“Sorry,” Steve mutters, drawing his hand away. _Idiot,_ he thinks angrily at himself.

They're silent for a long time. Steve wonders if he should leave. He's already made a mess of this encounter, and it's only been half an hour.

“Bucky,” the Winter Soldier eventually murmurs.

Steve frowns. Did the explosions from the helicarriers screw up his hearing? “What?”

“Your best friend,” the soldier says. “James Buchanan Barnes.” He looks at Steve, his eyes softening ever so slightly. “That's . . . that's me.” He says it experimentally, testing it out on his tongue.

Steve tries to smile, but he feels like he's about to cry. “Yeah, that's you.”

“I remember . . . it was something you said. There was a funeral,” Bucky says quietly. He frowns, trying to remember.

“My mother's,” Steve supplies.

Bucky looks like he's going to say something, but then thinks better of it. He just nods and leans back against the bed again, testing out his bonds experimentally. His cybernetic arm hitches, but then he rolls it and it moves smoothly again. He seems a bit more relaxed. That's something, at least.

“Can I ask you something?” Steve asks quietly.

The Winter Soldier hesitates, but then nods. His eyes are slowly icing up again. Steve's got to get this in quick before Bucky disappears into the metal husk of the soldier again.

“Why were you there? In Chicago?” Not the best question. Steve tries to make himself clearer. “Why were you . . . you know, using?”

Recognition lights up in Bucky's eyes, so at least Steve's got that part right. Bucky stays silent for a few minutes before answering. When he does, he sounds unsure of himself. “I did not want . . . to feel the pain,” he says softly. “The memories hurt. But they feel . . . I think I need them. The heroin helped.”

 _He was using heroin as a cure for his amnesia?_ Steve wonders incredulously. _Does that even work?_ Well, clearly it did _something._

“Bucky, you know who I am, right?” Steve asks.

The Winter Soldier gives him a small frown. “You are Steve Rogers. I was supposed to kill you. You . . . you were on the train in the winter. You did not try to kill me.”  
Steve can't help but grin like an idiot.

Bucky looks a bit lost at Steve's expression, and that makes Steve want to smile even more. He tries to sober up before he Bucky gets even more confused. He doesn't know what's come over him. Maybe it's just joy that his best friend is beginning to remember him, even if it isn't the best memory in the world.

Steve is plenty serious now. He thinks for several minutes before posing his question. “Do you . . . do you _want_ to remember?” he asks.

The Winter Soldier takes his time answering. “I . . . I just want it . . . to make sense,” he admits; he looks a bit frustrated with himself, but also somewhat lost.

This is it. This is Steve's chance. He doubts he can make everything okay again, but he can damn well try. “I can help you,” he says gently. “If you want me to. I can try.”

Bucky simply looks at him. It's different than when he looked at Steve on the rooftop near his apartment, after Fury was shot. That glare was full of hate and determination. This look is just so . . . broken.

“I do not know,” he eventually replies. He looks away.

Well, at least Steve's got a chance.


	13. Chapter 13

Tuesday, September 16th, 2014

The Soldier was initially surprised that it was not his handlers who had captured him, but rather Steve Rogers. Although he supposed the man would have been desperate to reunite with his former best friend. People are strange that way.

 _I tried to kill him,_ the Soldier thinks now, staring at the man known as Captain America. _But I couldn't._

And he isn't going to try now. He would have nowhere to go but back to his handlers. Back to the pain. Back to the ice. Back to the darkness of not knowing his own mind.

Then again, he'd had a simple life before. Thaw out, get debriefed, be sent to the target, eliminate the target, return, report, wipe, freeze. He had been handed everything – assignments, food, weapons, schedules, orders. Everyone was always very helpful and very fearful. The real world was not like that. Yes, there was still fear, but no one wanted to help him.

Except for this man.

The Soldier hates to look at him. Every time he sees that kind face he feels his shell begin to crack. Memories flash painfully in his mind, too quickly to be remembered, and his metal arm feels like a heavy weight on his shoulder. His eyes tear up for no reason at all, and he suddenly feels very alone. If this is finding himself, he would rather stay lost.

The worst part is, when he looks at this man, he no longer feels comfortable calling himself the Soldier. He is no longer only an assassin, but a person who once had a real, normal life. He doesn't want to admit it, but it scares him.

He itches for another fix, but he knows that it won't happen. He feels very weak at the moment, but his mind is clearer when unclouded by heroin. Unfortunately, that means the pain that the memories bring is horribly sharp in his brain. Whatever the wipes have done to him, they have done it well.

Another memory surfaces as he and Steve Rogers sit together in silence. Some sort of celebration or fair. Two pretty girls. A flying car. Rogers is there, but he is small, pre-serum. And then it's gone, like a flash of lightning, and the Soldier is left grasping at the ebbing sensation. He reaches for it.

But he reaches too far.

He is strapped down to a metal table, connected to machinery with wires that pinch at his skin. A short man with an accent stands over him, goggles obscuring his eyes. He looks like a bug. The horrible machine hovers over him, suspended from the ceiling, and it is slowly descending, coming closer and closer . . . He cannot look away, but he cannot bring himself to watch. Only when it is about to touch him does he close his eyes . . . and scream in absolute agony.

There is a cloud clatter as Steve Rogers jumps to his feet, knocking over a tray in the process. The Soldier must have screamed aloud. His chest his heaving, and for a moment, he does not know where he is. His target is standing there in front of him. He reaches for a knife or a gun or anything, but he cannot move his arms. He moves to rip his metal arm out of the handcuff, but finds himself being held down by his target.

The Soldier tries to break his nose with his head, but the target ducks out of the way just in time.

“Bucky! It's okay, you're safe!” the target yells.

_Bucky? Who the hell is Bucky?_

The Soldier swears and continues to struggle, but his movements are weakening by the second. There is something so familiar about his mark.

He is the man on the helicarrier deck. The man on the bridge. The man on the roof. The man on the train.

“ _Till the end of the line.”_ That's Bucky Barnes saying that to this man. The man from the funeral.

 _His mother's funeral,_ the Soldier remembers. _Steve Rogers._

 _“Till the end of the line.”_ That's Steve Rogers saying it to him on the helicarrier. That's the Soldier's hand freezing mid-swing. That's Steve Rogers falling into the water below. And now that's the Soldier diving in after him, because _he can't die._

And suddenly he collapses against the bed, sweat dripping down his face. Steve Rogers is still on top of him, holding him firmly but not so forceful as to injure him.

“Steve?” the Soldier whispers, much to his own surprise.

Rogers looks at him, hurt shining in his blue eyes. Hurt that the Soldier put there. “Yeah, Buck,” he replies just as softly, “I'm here.”

The Soldier closes his eyes, tears pricking at the corners of them. He hates looking at Steve Rogers, but it is the only way to remember. His head aches unbearably, but at least now he knows where he is, what has happened so far, what he has done.

 _I tried to kill him_ again,he realizes. His heart begins to hammer in his chest. Bozhe moi _, I could have killed him._

He can never hurt Steve Rogers, not ever. Fuck his mission – if he terminates his target, he'll just be sent back to the pain and the wipes and will most likely never escape his handlers again. They might even kill him if they find him again.

But if he kills his target, he will also kill a part of himself. The part that screamed at him on the helicarrier and kept him from striking Rogers again. The part that made him pause. The part that hates the way he calls himself the Soldier, the part that wails at the thought of all the people he has killed, the part that knows something is missing from him.

The part that is Bucky Barnes.

Steve stands up slowly, cautiously. Waiting for the Soldier to go ballistic again.

Then someone rushes into the enclosure, and the Soldier tenses, clenching his fists. He peers around Rogers' broad shoulders to get a better look.

It's the man from the helicarrier, the one with the mechanical wings. The one the Soldier sent free falling to nearly-certain death, an ally of Captain America. The Soldier does not much care whether this man is alive or not, but he supposes that he should feel some small amount of relief that he did not hurt Steve Rogers in this way too – by taking away yet another best friend. But he does not feel the relief that he should. He does not feel anything anymore.

“Everything alright in here?” the man asks, glancing suspiciously at the Soldier.

“Yeah, Sam, we're good,” Steve Rogers answers.

Sam glances at the Soldier again. “Should I leave?” he asks reluctantly.

Steve looks to the Soldier for his opinion. The Soldier remains quiet, staring straight ahead. He should not be making decisions when he can become so emotional so easily. That is one of the main problems with regaining his memories. Bucky Barnes was far too emotional for the Soldier's tastes.

“I guess you can stay,” Steve decides eventually, uncertainty clear in his tone. “Just . . . be good.”

Sam rolls his eyes and sticks out a hand in the Soldier's direction. “Name's Sam Wilson. You know, the guy whose wings you ripped apart,” he says sarcastically.

He doesn't really want to say anything, but he supposes that he should. “You did not die,” the Soldier says, looking at the outstretched hand. Pointing out the obvious, but after his . . . episode . . . it's the best he can do.

“Nope, sorry to disappoint you.” Sam Wilson waits a minute, and then retracts the hand.

“I am not disappointed,” the Soldier replies, but he doesn't sound so sure of himself.

Wilson glances in Steve Rogers' direction. “At least that's something,” he mutters under his breath. Even so, the Soldier can hear him perfectly well. “So,” he says, turning back to him, “how you feeling? Better, hopefully. It'd be hard not to, after what you were doing.”

The Soldier nods, and looks away. This is a rather uncomfortable situation.

“Talkative, huh?” Wilson snorts. “And you haven't had to shit yet, I see.”

“Sam!”

“Come on, Steve, I'm just messing with him.”

The Soldier does not understand how Sam Wilson can be so at ease around him. Steve Rogers puts up with him because he was formerly Bucky Barnes. But the paratrooper has no reason to be acting so . . . so _friendly._

Curiosity gets the better of him. “Why are you being . . .” – the Soldier struggles for the word – “. . . nice to me?”

Wilson raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“I tried to kill you.”

“Yeah, and you failed. So that's me, one, you, zero. I consider that a win in my book,” Wilson says simply.

The Soldier frowns. “You were not my mission,” he says, ice creeping back into his voice. “The termination of Steve Rogers was my mission.”

“And you didn't kill me, either,” Steve reminds him gently. He's smiling again. The Soldier would almost like seeing that smile – that is, if it didn't make his memories swirl agonizingly underneath the surface of his mind. It's almost as if there is a hurricane inside of his brain, just waiting to explode at any minute. Especially when Steve Rogers is in the room.

“Why?” the Soldier asks no one in particular. Himself, most likely. Why couldn't he complete his mission? He'd wanted to. He remembers trying his hardest . . . but it wasn't really his hardest, was it? He had been injured and confused, but he still could have very well killed Steve Rogers. He hadn't had any idea of a life free from his handlers at that point; he only entertained such ideas after leaving his would-be target on the bank of the Potomac River. So that couldn't have been his reasoning on the deck of the helicarrier.

Lost emotion, unexpectedly resurfaced. Vague memories of a past life. That's what caused him to stop.

Till the end of the line.

“I think you started to remember,” Steve Rogers says softly. He reaches out towards the Soldier, but his hand hesitates, and then stops, hovering uncertainly in the air before being retracted. “You were starting to remember me. And you were starting to remember you.”

The Soldier nods slightly. That sounds right. He thinks for several moments, weighing one side against the other. Pain versus knowledge.

He has dealt with pain for over seventy years. It is nothing he can't handle.

“I want to remember,” he decides eventually. “I want to remember,” he says again, louder.

Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson stare at him in surprise.

“Are – are you sure, Buck?” Steve asks him, biting his lip. “I mean—”

“I want to remember,” the Soldier repeats firmly. He is scared as hell, but he is sure. He has never been more sure of anything for as long as he can remember (which, unfortunately, isn't very long).

_I want to remember you. I want to remember myself. I want to know who Bucky Barnes is, and if he is still alive inside me._

_I want this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Buck says "bozhe moi," which as we all very well know is what Nat says in The Avengers. It translates to basically “Oh my God.” ~The More You Know~


	14. Chapter 14

Wednesday, September 17th, 2014

Sam and Steve sit at the table in silence. Barnes is asleep at last, after several long hours of, well staring out into space, basically. He's had his first meal and, miraculously, he hasn't thrown it up yet. The cuffs are still on, but Sam suspects that Steve will take them off within a week. Though surprisingly, Barnes seems to be okay with it.

 _The guy's really starting to remember,_ Sam thinks, pushing his dinner around his plate with a fork. _Who would've thought?_

“What should we do?” Steve mumbles at last. “Do hospitals even deal with this sort of thing?”

“Doubt it,” Sam replies, letting his fork fall to the metal table with a clatter. “Even if they do, we're not taking him to a public hospital. HYDRA would find him in a heartbeat.”

“They don't really have much manpower left after S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Civil War. Do you really think they're still out there?”

“Absolutely. The FBI's doing their best, but even so, those HYDRA guys are sneaky bastards.”

Steve sighs. “Then where do we take him?” he asks, slumping back in his chair. “Unless _you've_ got some stellar therapy tricks up your sleeve.”

Sam barks out a laugh. “I deal with PTSD, not freakin' amnesia,” he exclaims. “I've got no idea where to even _start.”_ He frowns, thinking. “I say we take him to a shrink, if anything. Keep it on the down low, you know.”

Steve nods, and Sam can see the gears in his head start to turn – he's got that pensive look on his face again that means he's drawing up a plan of action. Cap's always good at coming up with strategies on the fly. “I'm going to need to pick up some cash from my apartment,” he says, drumming his fingers on the table. “But there are eyes all around it. I'll have to disguise myself somehow. Break in, make it look like a robbery.”

It sounds all well and good, but Sam doubts that it's going to work. If that's the best plan Steve's got, then they're screwed. The NSA, FBI, DHS, NRO, who knows what military departments, and remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D. are all looking for the Winter Soldier, which means they're all watching Cap like a hawk. They've probably got agents searching for this bunker right now.

And of course they can't forget about HYDRA.

“Well, let's sleep on it,” Sam says. “Don't jump into things too fast, Cap.”

“Right.” Steve stands up with his plate and walks over to the sink around the corner.

Sam gets up and follows him. “Don't worry about the plates, man, I've got them,” he offers. “You get some rest. It's not easy, doing what you're doing.”

“Sam--”

“Who knows more about post-military psychological issues?”

“Sam . . .”

“Who?”

Steve sighs exasperatedly. “You do.”

“That's right, I do. Now get,” Sam teases him.

“Yes, sir,” Steve laughs, snapping him a salute.

Sam grins. “Careful, Rogers, I could get used to having Captain America salute me.”

“Don't worry, it won't happen again,” Steve replies over his shoulder, heading off towards the sleeping quarters.

Sam does the dishes quickly, and then peers around the corner to make sure that Rogers has actually gone to bed. Looks like it.

He creeps to the entrance to the bunker and unlocks it, cringing at the horrible noise the metal door makes as it opens. He closes it behind him and jogs through the tunnel, up towards the surface. It'll be nice to have some fresh air, and plus, he has a phone call to make. It's not like he can get cell reception in that metal box of a hideout.

Finally, he emerges from the tunnel. He closes the door and walks down the bridge, reveling in the feeling of the cool wind on his face. Sam looks up at the night (technically, early morning) sky and can't keep from smiling.

Leaning over the railing and looking into the water below, Sam gives a contented sigh and finally pulls out his phone. Luckily all he has to do is hit redial.

The phone stops ringing, but no one answers. Of course not.

“Hey, Romanoff,” Sam says lazily. “Gonna say hello?”

“Sam?”

“You bet.” He smiles in the dark.

The Widow gives a noisy sigh. “You can't just be calling me from wherever. Your phone could easily be traced.”

“Yeah, but I figure since you don't want anybody to find you, whatever little program you're running for your own protection will protect me, as well.”

There's a pause. “You're almost too smart for your own good,” Natasha quips, but with grudging admiration.

“Yeah, that's what they all tell me,” Sam chuckles. “Hey, I need some advice. Your professional opinion, as it were.”

“Now's not the best time . . .”

“We found him.”

She breathes in sharply. “Where was he?” she asks.

“Chicago, in some dump. High as f . . . high.” Sam has no trouble swearing like a sailor, and he's sure that Natasha has heard it all, but he likes to think of himself as a gentleman. He knows he isn't, but he likes to think it.

“On what, crack? No, he wouldn't . . . Heroin?” She's a smart one.

“Basically.”

“Is he sober now?”

“Basically.”

“So what do you need from me?” Natasha asks. “Is Steve . . . dealing?”

Sam glances back towards the bunker. “He's taking it extremely well,” Sam says. “I expected him to be way worse about it, but he seems to be handling just fine. Did that serum have emotionally-stabilizing properties that I don't know about?”

Natasha laughs. “No, that's just Steve,” she says softly. “So what advice do you need, again?”

“We don't know how to get his memories back,” Sam admits, all serious now. “He's expressed interest in it, given us his consent. But we have no clue where to start.”

“Right,” she agrees tersely. “Hospitals are too dangerous, so are psychiatrists. I'd say contact a S.H.I.E.L.D. counselor, but I doubt that's going to happen since every member is currently being interrogated by the U.S. government.” She pauses. “I think I might know someone who can help. I'll see what I can do, okay?”

Sam breathes out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Romanoff,” he says sincerely.

“Don't thank me yet,” she replies. “I don't even know if I can contact her.”

“Who's her?”

She laughs as if to say, _You think I'm that stupid?_ “See you,” she says abruptly, and hangs up.

Sam turns off his phone, shaking his head and smiling like he hasn't in a while. Romanoff's skittish antics never fail to bring his mood up.

He just wonders who she's going to be sending in. And if, by some miracle, they can help Barnes be, well, Bucky again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos, guys. c:


	15. Chapter 15

Friday, September 19th, 2014

Something isn't right.

Steve sits up in bed slowly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He was in the war long enough for his body to react to intruders even when asleep; that habit hasn't yet left him, even though he's been out of the ice for a couple of years. It's not the sort of thing that you easily forget.

He slides out of bed and quietly creeps past the sleeping Sam and into the main tunnel. Unfortunately, he's left his shield at the table in the main chamber, so he doesn't have any protection aside from his lightning-fast reflexes.

_Best case aside from it being nothing is that Bucky's escaped his constraints,_ he thinks, stealthily inching down the tunnel. _Worst case . . . someone's here for him._

That thought sends a shiver down Steve's spine. This is not good. This is not good at all.

Steve risks a look around the corner that sends his heart racing. There's definitely someone sitting at the table. Who, he didn't see; he looked too fast. Taking a deep, silent breath, he braces himself to take another glance. He's quick about it. Still doesn't know who it is, but it's a woman. She doesn't look too difficult to handle, but then again, neither does Natasha when you first look at her. Never underestimate a woman based on her size or her appearance. Never underestimate a woman in general.

He forms a simple plan of attack in his mind. She's sitting down, so he'll have the advantage, but if she's flexible and expecting the attack, she might be able to use that metal chair she's sitting in to sweep him off his feet. If that's the case, and if she's armed, then he's basically dead.

_Worth a shot._

He leaps around the corner, ready to grab her, when he sees her face.

“D-deputy Director Hill?” he gasps incredulously.

Maria Hill turns towards Steve; she does not look impressed by the sight of the super soldier in only his pajamas.

“Captain Rogers,” she says cordially. “Sorry to intrude in the middle of the night, but I'm pretty sure the Air Force is on my ass right now. Sort of punched out a colonel. It was a while ago, but the military's pretty good at holding grudges.”

“Uh, hi,” Steve stammers. “And, um, why are you here, exactly?”

“Romanoff sent me here to help you out with the Winter Soldier,” she says.

“How did she--?”

“Sam Wilson called her.”

_Of course he did,_ Steve groans internally. _And since when did he get her number?_

“Thanks,” Steve replies, “but I'm not really sure what you can do. He's medically stable, for the most part, and I didn't think you knew anything about psychology.”

“Oh, I don't,” Hill says, giving him a smile. “But how did you manage to detox him? Natasha told me Barnes was as high as a kite when you found him, and neither you nor Sam has much of a medical background.”

“Acquired some thiopental, consulted Google,” Steve answers, shrugging. “It's the best we could do.”

“Nice,” Hill laughs. She stands up and smooths her pants down. “So, what's your plan?”

Steve raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest. “What makes you think I have a plan?”

She gives him a look. “C'mon, Steve. Who do you think I am?”

Steve laughs, but then he has to be serious again. It's Bucky they're talking about, after all. “We thought taking him to a psychologist might do something for him,” he says quietly. “I'll rob my apartment for some cash and we'll take him somewhere he won't be noticed.”

“Oh, no you won't,” Hill says, her eyes blazing fiercely. “You're not going anywhere with him.”

Steve frowns. “And why not?”

“Ever since Romanoff exposed all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets, the whole of the U.S. government has been tasked with tracking down every last agent to be taken in and interrogated,” she says, her jaw working. Clearly, she isn't okay with what's been happening to her people. Steve wouldn't be – and isn't – either. “The majority of us have escaped into the private sector now, but the government's still watching our every move, constantly looking for remnants of HYDRA and double agents that have yet to be ferreted out. Can't say I blame them, but in your case, they're especially alert. You're the key to finding the Winter Soldier, and every branch of the military is practically salivating at that chance.”

“I've been out in public before and this has never been a problem,” Steve protests. “And I've been an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D all this time.”

“Yeah, that's because you're _Captain America,_ and they'd be idiots to even _try_ to touch you,” she explains, rolling her eyes. “But now you've been off the grid for more than a week, and everybody's getting all antsy about it – especially the NSA. If you show your face now, they're going to come after you and start asking lots of questions. And if you show your face with Barnes?” She shakes her head at the mere thought. “The Armed Forces will grab him before you can even get your shield off your back.”

Steve sighs noisily. Surely Hill's being a bit overdramatic . . . but if HYDRA and the military are after Bucky, then what other options do they have left? They can't sit around and wait for Bucky's memories to resurface, causing him emotional turmoil and probably a great deal of pain each time a new one breaks through the brainwashing.

“Then what can we do? Where can we take him where the military can't touch him? And where he can get the help he needs?” Steve mutters. “There's nowhere.”

They sit in silence for several minutes, thinking. Then it dawns on Hill and she starts to grin.

“Maybe you should swing by my workplace,” she says slowly, her blue eyes lighting up. “My boss will know exactly who to call.”

“Your boss?” Steve frowns, and then realizes who she's talking about. “Stark?”

She smirks. “The one and only. I'm sure he wouldn't mind a visit from his old pal,” she says laughingly.

Steve makes a face. He has some respect for Stark after what he did during the Chitauri invasion, and of course Steve was glad that Stark fixed Sam's wings, but the man is absolutely full of himself. Still, no one knows the latest in technology like Tony Stark – he _owns_ the latest in technology. And out of all the people on this planet, he is the one man who would never betray Bucky to the military. In fact, he'd probably do more to get the government off their backs than anyone else in the country, considering how much trouble he's had with them in the past over his Iron Man suits. Anything he could do to give the finger to the U.S. government, he'd do in a heartbeat.

“Alright, we'll go visit. Couldn't hurt,” Steve decides, and then glances at the clock. “Do we still have time tonight? It's only half-past two.”

“Wow, right away, huh?” Hill remarks. She mulls over it. “Why not? I haven't really checked with him, but . . . Nah, he can deal with it. Might not make me most valuable employee of the month, but I'm sure he'll appreciate the circumstances.”

“I'll go wake up Sam,” Steve says. “Be back in a minute.”

“ _Sam's_ already up,” a voice calls from down the tunnel. Out steps the man in question, his eyes barely open, his voice groggy, and his walk still a bit unsteady with sleep – but Sam nonetheless. “What the hell are you on about, Cap?” he yawns.

He takes a few more steps into the main chamber of the bunker before noticing Maria Hill. Immediately, his eyes widen and the sleep drains out of him in a snap. “Agent, er, Deputy-thing-whatever Hill?” he gasps.

“Just Maria, now,” Hill replies, smiling at how out of it Sam is. “Not an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. anymore.”

Sam nods, still not really comprehending. “Ohhh,” he exhales. “Romanoff sent you.” He looks at Steve sheepishly. “Sorry, man, I just thought . . .”

Steve holds up a hand to stop Sam's apology. “Good thinking,” he says. “Listen, pack your stuff. We're moving out on the hour.”

Sam nods sharply. “Where to?” he asks. He doesn't question why, he just wants to know the details. Sometimes Steve wonders if Sam is overly obedient to him. Just because he's Captain America doesn't mean he's right all the time.

“New York,” Steve replies, smiling despite himself. “We're going to pay another visit to Stark Tower.”


	16. Chapter 16

Friday, September 19th, 2014

“Buck? Bucky?”

The Soldier slowly opens his eyes. He isn't used to sleeping so well, and his reflexes are not what they were before the heroin and the sedative. He will recover fully within a few weeks, no doubt, but in the meantime, he feels unbearably normal. Except for his cybernetic arm, of course.

“Hey.” Steve Roger's face is hovering about a foot above his.

The Soldier flinches at the closeness. His head is in a constant state of aching, memories beginning to mix with flashbacks of the pain he endured at the hands of his handlers. He still does not know who they are. The purposes behind his assassinations were always kept from him. He will remember how and where and when, but he will never remember why. That is something he was never told.

Rogers backs away from him, most likely shying away from the hostile look that must be on the Soldier's face. “I think we've found someone who can help you,” Rogers says softly. “But we've got to go now.”

The Soldier immediately sits up in his bed. Even as weak as he is, he does not want to be just waiting around and staying still. Out in the field, he enjoys each moment of stillness and peace, but in this cramped bunker (that's what Rogers and Wilson have been calling it these past few days), he feels like he's trapped in a cage. The closed-in atmosphere reminds him of the bank where they kept him, where they wiped him, where they hurt him.

Steve unlocks him from his constraints. He twists his right wrist experimentally. He has long since been unhooked from the monitor, as his condition was improving at an increasing rate, so now he stands up quickly and looks to Rogers for more instructions. The Soldier does not quite trust him, but this man seems hell-bent on the survival of his former friend, and it is extremely improbable that he would ever try to harm him.

Steve Rogers looks oddly concerned, but the Soldier doesn't know why he would be. Standing up was the correct thing to do. Right?

“Um, we're going to New York,” he says uncertainly, giving the Soldier a once-over. “Are you up for that?”

The Soldier nods once.

“Okay . . . you're going to have to wear some of my clothes.” He holds a small pile of garments out.

The Soldier obediently takes them. He slides a shirt over his head; it fits perfectly, and he mildly wonders how Rogers could ever fit into it, since his build is larger. The Soldier pulls up the pants over the boxers he is wearing and zips them up. He glances up at Rogers as he finishes putting on the socks and begins to lace up the athletic shoes. Rogers is looking to the side, his cheeks pink with slight embarrassment. The Soldier does not understand, but neither does he particularly care. It just feels good to have clean clothes on again.

Rogers hands him a leather jacket, and he shrugs it on. It smells old, a little familiar. The Soldier shakes that thought out of him and looks expectantly at the captain.

“Er, I guess we'll go, then,” he says.

Steve Rogers leads the him out of the medical unit, and the Soldier gets a good look at his surroundings for the first time. They're in a set of tunnels, probably designed specifically for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s use. A safe house, of sorts. The Soldier finds himself trying to memorize as much as possible, as if he still has a mission report at the end of the day.

They are joined by Sam Wilson and a woman that the Soldier does not recognize. She seems to know who he is, though, and looks at him with a mixture of fear and respect. He's used to that sort of look.

After a series of turns (two right, one left), they come to a large blast door. Rogers grinds it open, and they pass through into an upward-sloping tunnel. The air is fresher here.

They walk the length of the tunnel to the next door; this time Wilson opens it for them. The woman walks out purposefully, giving the man a nod of thanks. Rogers leads the Soldier, his hand hovering near his back, guiding him forward without ever touching him.

The Soldier wonders why Rogers is being so careful with him. In his state, he poses little to no threat to Rogers. Especially since he has decided that completing his mission is not something that he is going to do, despite his psychological programming screaming at him with every step to turn around and tear his target's throat out. He will not give himself back up to his handlers, and he will not harm Steve Rogers. He does not know which reason is more important, but they are his reasons, and that is enough.

Still, he appreciates the lack of physical contact. Touching makes him nervous.

He emerges into the light of day – actually, it's night, but still.

There's a mild autumn chill in the air, and the leaves on the trees have begun to turn. It must have been about half a year since the Soldier “disappeared,” since it was spring when the helicarriers crashed. Project Insight, he believes it was called. Not that its name ever concerned him. He was only sent to keep the project from failing. Which he did not accomplish.

His failures are meaningless to him now, since his handlers' threats are empty. They cannot punish him if they cannot find him. He likes having that sort of power.

They walk to an old four-door sedan and a black SUV parked nearby, carefully concealed beneath tree branches in a secluded area. The Soldier dimly recognizes the model of the SUV – he must have targeted one recently. Those memories have yet to clear up.

“Better take my car,” the woman says. “More protected, and plus, the license plate's on file at Stark Industries already.”

“A bit conspicuous, don't you think?” Rogers asks, giving the car a once-over.

“It's also S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued,” the woman replies, “meaning it has the same safety measures as Fury's. It's virtually indestructible. The only person to have ever taken one out was this guy.” She nods her head in the Soldier's direction. So that's why the car looks familiar.

Steve Rogers shrugs and follows the woman to the car. She climbs in the front, and, reluctantly, Sam Wilson slides into the passenger seat. Rogers and the Soldier take the back. Rogers buckles his seat belt right away and then looks to he Soldier expectantly. Resignedly, he does the same. It's highly unlikely that they'll collide with anything this time of night, but if it puts everyone else at ease, who is he to argue? He'd most likely be dead already if it weren't for these uncommonly kind people.

Though he isn't sure how he feels about being alive anymore, whether it's a blessing or a curse. Still, the instinct of self-preservation is strong inside of him.

The drive through the dark forest is calming. Although in the back of his mind he's memorizing the route and the exits they take and and every detail about the inside of the car, he tries his best to appreciate his surroundings. He never saw much beauty in the world before. Perhaps the heroin has had a lasting effect on his system, causing him to become overly emotional at insignificant stimuli. That is a worrying thought.

Steve Rogers must see his frown. “Bucky? Are you okay?” he asks.

The Soldier flinches, and doesn't answer. He looks down at his hands. One pale, one glinting silver.

Sam Wilson turns around in the front seat, giving the Soldier a shrewd look. “Do you like being called Bucky?” he asks quietly.

Rogers looks taken aback at the question, and the Soldier hesitates before answering. “No,” he says eventually. He sounds almost ashamed of himself. “It does not feel . . . right.”

“What do you want us to call you, then?” the woman asks, glancing back in the rear-view mirror.

Bucky Barnes is technically the Soldier's name. But it doesn't quite _fit. “_ I do not know,” he says eventually. He frowns and looks out the window.

“What do you call yourself?” Wilson enquires. “Or do you not call yourself anything?”

The Soldier shakes his head. “My handlers called me the Soldier,” he answers, shrugging.

Steve Rogers squeezes his hands into fists. The Soldier is confused. From what he has read, he understands that Rogers has occasionally been referred to as “the Soldier” – so maybe he is unhappy at that similarity?

“Should we call you that?” Rogers asks quietly. His voice is tense. “The Soldier?”

It sounds very wrong coming from him. The Soldier is comfortable calling himself that, but he does not want Steve Rogers to ever do so. He doesn't want Rogers calling him anything but Bucky, he realizes. He dislikes being called his real name because he doesn't feel like he deserves it. He is not the same James Buchanan Barnes that Steve Rogers once knew. And the name hurts, makes his head pound. Like there's something he should be remembering, or saying, and he just . . . isn't.

“No,” the Soldier says in a low voice. “Bucky . . . will be okay. I . . . I just need to remember. Then it will be better.” He sounds as if he's trying to convince himself. He hates this weakness in his voice. Before, he was never weak.

He was strong and indestructible until the moment Steve Rogers called him by his name.

Rogers nods and gives him a tentative, encouraging smile. The Soldier . . . or Bucky? . . . would return it, but he has not yet smiled in this life. In a past life that he barely recalls, yes. But not as the Soldier.

“Um,” Steve Rogers says suddenly. “I don't think you know Deput—I mean, Maria Hill.” He gestures to the woman in the driver's seat.

“Hi,” she calls in a friendly tone. She keeps her eyes on the road as she changes lanes.

The Soldier doesn't know what to say. He simply looks at her. He hears Steve Rogers sigh next to him and feels like he's disappointed him.

_I should just stay silent,_ the Soldier thinks dejectedly.

He does that for the next 164 minutes, just counting the seconds and staring out the window. A few times Wilson attempts to start a conversation, but only Hill replies. Steve Rogers stays silent with him in the back of the SUV, occasionally giving the Soldier shy glances that make him feel very self-conscious.

They pull into an underground parking garage in the heart of Manhattan. Maria Hill became relaxed and stopped speeding the minute they hit the city, and now she easily navigates the garage. The sign above the entrance reads:

STARK INDUSTRIES

EMPLOYEE PARKING ONLY

UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES WILL BE TOWED

Hill leans over to badge in at the automated machine. The Soldier cannot exactly see what she is doing, but a retinal scan and a voice confirmation seem to be involved, as well as other security measures that the Soldier usually had no need for. His stealth missions typically required him to take down targets from a distance; he can recall very few assignments where he had been forced to break and enter to get to his mark. Then again, he is sure many of his missions are still missing from his memory.

After a few seconds, the gate rises and Hill drives them through the parking garage to her assigned parking space. They leave the car there and follow her across the mostly empty floor to the elevators.

“Now would probably be a good time to call Stark, wouldn't it?” Steve Rogers asks as they wait for the elevator. Apparently there are other employees at Stark Industries at six in the morning. A bit early for most, but nothing too unreasonable for the zealous worker.

“Yeah,” Hill sighs, pulling out her cellphone. She thumbs the screen a few times and then holds it up to her ear.

The Soldier has handled a cellphone once or twice, but has never done anything beyond calling the number given to him. He was rarely separated from his team. He wonders what has become of them. He never grew close to them because he never remembered them before, but now he does. There are two Russian men that he particularly remembers, and recalls liking fairly well, but he does not know their names. He doubts that he ever did. They certainly never knew who he really was.

“Hi, Mr. Stark, it's Maria Hill,” she says into the phone. “If you get this message in the next, say, ten minutes or so, then come down to meet us in the main lobby. I'd like to _not_ knock out your security guards, but I will if I have to. We have some, uh, business to discuss. And Captain America says hi.” She ends the call and smiles apologetically in the direction of Sam Wilson and the Soldier. “I'd have mentioned you guys, but I'm sure we'll do formal introductions later.”

Wilson and the Soldier both nod. The three talkative members of their party had formulated a plan during the last length of the car ride, with the Soldier listening in. Since they want to keep his existence a secret from everyone but Mr. Tony Stark himself, they'll try to take out the security guards in the lobby and bypass the metal detectors, and then attempt to ride the main elevator up to Stark's private floors.

Although the Soldier knows virtually nothing about this Stark Tower and the man who runs it, he knows that their plan is more than likely to fail. He understands their concern for security, but at this point he doesn't really care anymore. He feels memories starting to resurface with every mention of the name Tony Stark. He does not want to meet anyone else he may have tried to kill at one point, and he secretly believes that this Stark is one of them – although never the target of one of his missions. If that were the case, he would already be dead.

The elevator arrives with a ding, and they file in. Hill pushes the button for the ground floor and they wait as the lift takes them up. She taps her foot on the floor, while Rogers and Wilson appear to be rather calm. The Soldier is unfeeling. He has several outcomes predicted, but he feels no emotional attachment to any of them. He does not hope for any one result in particular. He does not know how to hope.

The elevator doors open, and the group exits. Maria Hill motions for the other three to stay back. She peers around the corner and then ducks back.

“Two guards on the floor, four on the balcony,” she whispers. “I can get past the ones on the ground and probably take out two above, tops.”

“I'll take the other two on the balcony,” Sam Wilson offers. He's wearing his mechanical wings again, so ascending to that level will be easiest for him. The Soldier is mildly interested to notice that they have been repaired. But they are easy to damage; he should know.

“And I'll come out with you, Maria,” Steve Rogers decides. “The guards will know who I am. I can distract them while Sam gets into position.”

The Soldier understands that he is not to be taking part in the action, and that it is for his own good. But he feels a slight tremor of discontent pass through him. Some part of him wants to be fighting at their side, even when before he had been fighting against these very people.

Bucky wants to fight alongside his friend again. The Soldier does not know what to think of this. Maybe it _is_ best that he isn't taking part this time around.

Hill takes a deep breath and steps out from around the corner, walking with purpose and confidence. Rogers follows close behind, swinging his shield easily.

The Soldier hears the excited whispers of the security guards.

“Is that--?”

“It's Captain America!”

“I _told_ you this job would have perks, didn't I?”

“Good morning, gentlemen.” That's Hill.

“Hello, Miss Hill,” one of the men says. “May I ask why you're coming in so early today?”

“On call this week,” she lies, her voice getting fainter as she walks further away from where Wilson and the Soldier are waiting. “It sucks.” Her laugh echoes throughout the large room.

The security guards then proceed to express their happiness and excitement to Steve Rogers, telling him how glad and honored they are to meet him. He laughs it off, agrees to sign some of their personal belongings. He's both a famous historical figure and a modern-day celebrity. The Soldier practically shudders at the thought of everyone knowing his own face. What a nightmare.

“Why don't you guys take a break?” Maria Hill says in a friendly tone. “All six of you. Just for, like, five minutes.”

“Excuse me?” one of the guards asks.

“Miss Hill, we can't do that,” the other one on the ground says.

“Then I'm really sorry about this,” she says, and she sounds sincere. At least she gave them a chance.

Then, sounds of fighting. Sam Wilson darts around the corner, his wings powering up as he flexes his arms. The Soldier hears a few gunshots, but isn't particularly concerned. He hears no ricochet off of the captain's shield, so therefore they are not aiming at Rogers. Captain America's fate is the only one the Soldier would even bother concerning himself with. Steve means a lot to Bucky. And he's starting to mean more to the Soldier.

“Hey!” Sam Wilson shouts, interrupting the Soldier's thoughts. “Come on out, Barnes!”

He turns the corner coolly, his cybernetic fingers itching for a weapon to hold. He warily surveys the room, and finds six unconscious bodies. Only unconscious, instead of dead.

_Oh._

So that's why they didn't want him taking out the guards. Of course.

“You okay?” Steve Rogers asks him, clipping his shield onto his back once again. He doesn't have a scratch on him.

The Soldier frowns. He was never in the line of fire, why wouldn't he be in perfect condition? Or at least near-perfect, considering his recent drug use. “Yes,” he says, a bit confused by Rogers' question. “I was not in any danger.”

Rogers gives him a half-smile, and then leads him towards the main elevators, where Wilson and Hill are waiting.

“We have exactly two minutes before they send Stark's personal army after us,” Hill says briskly. “Let's get a move on.”

They rush into the waiting elevator and Hill uses her badge to get access to the private floors above.

“The guards knew your name. Didn't know you and Stark were that close,” Steve Rogers remarks as the elevator picks up speed.

“We're not,” Maria Hill replies. “Pepper and I, on the other hand, are pretty much besties.” She gives Rogers a somewhat forced smile, and Sam Wilson coughs out a laugh.

And then the elevator screeches to a halt.

The doors of the lift open, and in front of them stands a man with an immaculately-trimmed beard wearing silk pajamas and a very disapproving expression. The Soldier tenses immediately, although he doubts this man is much of a threat, given that he's wearing . . . slippers.

“Bucky,” Steve Rogers murmurs in the Soldier's ear, “I'd like you to meet Tony Stark.”


	17. Chapter 17

Friday, September 19th, 2014

“And what sort of time do you call this?” Tony Stark demands, crossing his arms. “The sun isn't even up yet!”

“Actually, sir, sunrise was three minutes ago.” The accented voice speaks from seemingly nowhere – Jarvis, the AI that runs the Iron Man suits (well, _ran_ them) and the rest of Stark's stuff. Sam remembers this from his previous visit to the Stark skyscraper.

“Jarvis? Not now,” Stark snaps, and then takes another look at the people standing in the elevator. They must make one hell of a sight. “Cap?” he exclaims, a silly grin growing on his face. “Great to see you, buddy! Maria, you should have told me everyone was dropping by. I would've put on a suit. Or, you know, woken up, at the very least.”

“I called you,” she replies, raising a dark eyebrow. “Good to see you've been sleeping better, at least.”

Stark rolls his eyes and focuses now on Sam and Barnes. “Hey, Sam. Nice to see you again.”

“You too, man,” Sam replies.

“Got the Falcon on? How's it work?”

“Like a dream.”

“Great,” Stark says, and then gives Barnes an inquisitive look. “And who are you?”

Barnes stays silent, as usual.

“This is Bucky,” Steve says for him, his eyes downcast.

Stark furrows his brow. “Sounds familiar. Have we met before?” he asks.

Sam glances at Bucky to see that the poor guy has a pained expression. Seeing Stark must have triggered something in him, maybe a memory of . . . well, who knows what.

“I don't think so,” Steve says quickly. “I might have mentioned him once.”

Sam would give Bucky a pat on the shoulder, make sure he's alright, but he doubts that the man wants to be touched by anyone at this point. Who knows how much he's been tortured by HYDRA? Enough to make him shy away from any human contact, that's for sure.

Barnes clenches his fists, and Tony's intelligent eyes follow the movement. They widen, and he slowly backs away from the elevator doors, recognition dawning on his face as he looks at Barnes' left hand.

“Ho-ly shit. I really hope you have a good explanation for bringing Nick Fury's _assassin_ here,” he mutters, his eyes darkening. “The Winter Soldier, or something like that, right?”

“How would you—” Maria begins to ask.

Stark waves off her question and says, “S.H.I.E.L.D. sends their people to spy on me, I send my people to spy on them. It works out.”

“His name,” Steve says through gritted teeth, “is James Buchanan Barnes. Have your computer look him up.”

Stark narrows his eyes at Steve's tone, but calls out to his AI nonetheless.

Jarvis answers him. “Sergeant James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes died in the winter of 1945,” it (or he?) says. “He was one of the Howling Commandos, with whom I believe you are familiar, sir.”

Stark shakes his head as if he can't believe what he's hearing. Which, considering the sheer improbability of it all, he probably can't. “If he's dead, how is he alive?” he demands, and turns to Rogers. “Steve?”

“He's my best friend,” Steve says in a broken voice. “And we need your help.”

Sam holds his breath, watching Stark like a hawk. If he doesn't want to help them, then they're screwed, and Bucky may never fully recover. Or worse, he'll start to regress. God knows how HYDRA brainwashing works.

Stark eventually gives a sigh, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Okay,” he decides. “Okay, fine, whatever.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Hill says with a relieved smile.

Stark rolls his eyes, but looks secretly pleased with himself as he steps into the elevator. “Jarvis, call off the impending security alert.”

“Yes, sir,” Jarvis replies.

The elevator doors close behind Stark, and Sam almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Here he is, in an elevator with Iron Man, Captain America, a former leader of a secret spy organization, and probably the most dangerous assassin known to mankind. What a great way to start his day.

“Jarvis, take us to the 92nd floor,” Stark orders.

Rogers frowns. “What's up there?”

“Why, your living quarters, of course,” Stark replies with a smirk. Now he looks extremely proud of himself.

_Damn, this guy's mood can change fast,_ Sam thinks.

“I figured I could do some remodeling after Loki wrecked the place,” Stark explains, shrugging nonchalantly. “And I made a few living arrangements for the Avengers.”

“What made you think that any of us would ever live in Stark Tower?” Rogers asks, raising an eyebrow.

“God, no, you wouldn't  _live_ here.” Stark shudders. “That would be a nightmare.”

“Fine, then. When would we ever  _use_ these rooms you've built for us?”

Tony seems a bit hurt by Steve's lack of faith. “We're a team,” he says. “I mean, if we ever got called together again for some reason and we needed a place to crash . . . let's be honest, I have the best house, hands down. And I had a few empty floors that I didn't know what to do with. Really, it's no big deal.”

“Well, thanks,” Rogers says, giving Stark a small smile.

“It's nothing.” But Sam can tell that Tony's secretly pleased at winning Cap over. Rogers never speaks much about Stark, but when he does, it's with a mixture of respect and annoyance. Sam guesses that there's still some tension between them.

The elevator halts smoothly and the doors open, revealing a tastefully-arranged common area. Several hallways branch off from the main room, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun is just rising above the horizon. Altogether, it's one hell of a place.

Sam gives a low whistle. “Damn, this all yours, Cap?” he asks.

“Nah, it's for everyone,” Stark explains, stuffing his hands into his pajama pockets. “You have your own room, though. Hope that's good enough.”

“It's a little unnecessary,” Steve laughs, running a hand through his hair. His shoulders shrug up in embarrassment. “But thanks again.”

Tony hums happily under his breath and proceeds to flop down on one of the couches. “So, Bucky, right?” he says, looking right at Barnes. “What's your story?”

Despite the temptation, Sam doesn't turn to look at Barnes and his reaction. He doesn't need all eyes on him every second of the day. He's probably uncomfortable enough as it is without everyone in the room staring at him and waiting for an answer.

After a few moments, Tony frowns. “Do you ever say anything?” he demands.

“Hey, take it easy on him,” Sam says. “He's got retrograde amnesia, for crying out loud.”

“Hmm, making more sense now.” Stark nods, and Sam can practically see his genius brain putting all the pieces together. If this was Sam's skyscraper they were all crashing at, he would be having a hard time getting past the “assassin who killed Nick Fury” part still. “So why'd you run away from HYDRA?” he asks Barnes.

Sam glances back at Barnes and sees the frown form on his face. Does he not even remember the people controlling him?

“I do not understand,” the Winter Soldier says in a low voice.

“HYDRA, your handlers,” Maria clarifies.

Barnes' eyes widen and he looks to Steve helplessly.

“You didn't know HYDRA was in control,” Steve realizes aloud. He scrambles for the words to explain what happened. “Um, well, we didn't stop HYDRA in World War II, if you remember any of that. They infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. and, uh, experimented on you.  After you fell.”

Barnes is quiet for several minutes, and Sam begins to worry. Maybe what Steve said was too much for him. The soldier could snap at any minute and start attacking everyone, and they didn't even bring tranqs with them. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Finally, he speaks. “I don't want to go back,” he admits in a near-whimper. “I don't want them to wipe me again.”

Stark abruptly stands up from the couch and Barnes tenses, no doubt preparing for a fight. Sam still jumps at loud noises every so often, certain that he's about to be attacked or that a bomb's going off somewhere. He doesn't know if he quite understands Barnes, but he understands at least this part of him.

Tony holds his hands up in a nonthreatening gesture. “Hey, it's alright,” he says, and then turns to Steve. “They wiped his _memory?_ With _what?”_

“I don't know,” Steve answers, sighing unhappily. “His memories are starting to come back, but . . . it's painful for him. It's not like normal amnesia, as far as I can tell. Sometimes he just . . . forgets everything, and reverts back to doing what he was programmed to do.” As in trying to kill Steve. They've had a few incidents in the past several days – nothing they couldn't deal with, but it's still pretty rough on Barnes. He comes out of those episodes more broken than before, guilt at what he's nearly done swimming in his eyes.

“And you don't know what to do,” Tony finishes for Steve.

Steve nods, and Barnes looks away unhappily. Sam can't imagine what he must be feeling.

“Well, I'm sure my PTSD isn't as bad as some of the people you've seen, Sam,” Stark says, nodding in Sam's direction. “But I managed to work through that with a few therapists. Don't expect me to call up Bruce, though. He's no help at all. The guy fell asleep on me while I was telling him the whole story. I was baring my _soul_ to him, and what does he do? Takes a nap.”

Steve can't help himself – he smiles. Sam would too, if he knew Bruce Banner personally. The Hulk was under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s protection before, but now he's probably had to go back into hiding now that all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s stuff is fair game. Maria lets out an amused snort, though.

“Could you call one of your therapists? Someone who can be discreet?” she asks.

Stark nods. “I can do that. Maybe a little later in the morning, though.”

“Of course,” Steve says graciously. “I'm sorry for bringing you into this. We can't trust anyone else.”

“Right,” Tony murmurs, glancing at Barnes. His eyes are drawn to the clenched cybernetic hand half-hidden beneath Barnes' sleeve. Of course – Stark and his love for machines. If it were uncertain that Stark would protect them, his fascination with Barnes' metal arm would assure their safety at the Tower. Luckily, Tony Stark is a good man, so they won't have to rely on his interest in cybernetic technology to keep them safe.

There's an awkward silence for a few moments as Barnes stares into the distance, Steve stares at Bucky, Stark stares at the two of them, and Maria and Sam are left to look around and avoid making eye contact with everybody else.

“Right,” Tony repeats, startling himself out of his thoughts. He coughs. “So, did you guys want to sleep or something?”

“Well, breakfast would be nice,” Sam says. “I don't know about the supersoldiers over there, but I'm starving.”

That gets a laugh out of Tony and Maria, and even a halfhearted smile out of Steve. Barnes' expression remains unchanged as usual.

“Alright,” Stark says. “Pepper and I were planning to have brunch today, but I'm sure she'll understand if I cancel the reservation for some superhero-time.”

“Or Maria could just take your place,” an unfamiliar voice says from behind them.

They all whip around to face the elevator, where Pepper Potts is coming out of the elevator. Sam's never seen her in person before, just in pictures around Stark's place. She's already wearing a casual dress, makeup, and a pair of heels, and it's, what, 7:15?

Hill laughs. “I might need a nap first. Just pulled an all-nighter dragging these guys' sorry asses up here from D.C.”

Pepper nods, surveying the merry group that has gathered on the 92nd floor of Stark Tower. She doesn't look all too surprised; Sam's sure that she's caught her boyfriend doing much, much worse before. Saying that the billionaire has a reputation would be the understatement of the century.

“So, what's the occasion?” she asks. “You said you had visitors, but I assumed it would be . . . something different.”

“You're just going to give up my seat at brunch?” Tony demands, playfully feigning hurt. “I can't believe you. You really have no soul. You _ginger.”_ He smiles dazzlingly at her.

She shakes her head and smiles. “No, really,” she persists, turning to Maria for a straight answer. “What's going on? I mean, it's wonderful to see all of you, and Tony's told me so much about, well, _most_ of you, but . . .”

“Here, I'll introduce you,” Stark says, stepping in.

“I know Steve Rogers, Captain America,” she says, walking forward and shaking Steve's hand with a friendly smile. “And . . . I'm sorry,” she apologizes to Sam, “Tony's talked about you, but the only thing he's ever called you is something like 'Falcon guy.'”

“Sam Wilson,” Sam supplies, stepping forward to shake her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” Pepper says. She turns to Barnes. “And you are?”

“Bucky Barnes,” Steve replies for him. He gives Pepper an embarrassed smile and steps in front of Barnes, still a bit overprotective.

She raises and eyebrow but doesn't ask any questions. She looks back at Maria. “Seriously, Maria. I need to know.”

Hill sighs and crosses her arms. “Steve's friend, Bucky, needs help. And it's got to be private.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” Pepper still looks a bit confused, though.

“Can I tell you the rest of it over brunch?” Maria asks with a weary smile.

“Of course, doll,” Pepper says. “Here, you can use the guest room upstairs. You're dead on your feet.” She looks at the guys. “All of you are. Get some sleep, and we'll figure things out later.” She turns to leave.

Stark frowns. “And where are you going?”

“Sweetie, it's Friday, and some of us have actual work to do,” she says. “I'm still CEO of Stark Industries, remember?”

Tony Stark feigns surprise. “Oh, really?” he jokes, pulling Pepper in for a quick kiss. “Alright, I'll show the boys to bed. See you later, Hill.”

“Yes, sir,” Maria responds with a snappy salute, and then walks arm-in-arm with Pepper to the elevator.

“Well, _they're_ good friends,” Sam remarks after they've left.

“I always feel like they're scheming behind my back,” Stark admits, running a hand through his hair. “Two of the most powerful women I know, best buddies, and they always seem to be giggling at something. At me.”

“Who wouldn't?” Steve cracks, finally _really_ smiling for the first time in . . . a while.

Sam expects Tony to make some snide comment about how Steve's mood is improving, but he doesn't. “Thanks, Cap,” he says sarcastically, “thanks for the vote of confidence.” For someone who always acts so blunt, Stark's a pretty perceptive guy.

Steve just smiles faintly, looking over at Barnes, who still hasn't moved from his spot. At least he's staring out the window now, instead of out into space.

Tony claps his hands, startling them all. “So,” he says with a forced smile, “who wants breakfast?”


	18. Chapter 18

Friday, September 19th, 2014

Steve yawns and stretches, reluctant to get up. It's about three in the afternoon now, and if he wants to get any sleep tonight, he needs to be awake for a while first. He's got to admit, having his own suite in Stark Tower is nice, especially when his apartment has been bugged for who knows how long. If this place is monitored, it's guaranteed to only be Jarvis listening in on him. Even though the AI running the Tower still startles Steve once in a while (especially after that experience with Zola's consciousness back at Camp Lehigh), he doesn't particularly mind the soothing English voice assuring him that everything is fine and that dinner will be on time. Tony has even promised Steve a voice command password while they're staying at the Tower, so that he can make his requests to Jarvis directly.

He pads out of his room and into the common area, where Tony's lounging on a couch, watching a TV show. He looks up when Steve sits down next to him.

“How was the room?” Tony asks, excited for feedback.

“Great, it was great,” Steve manages to say through a wide yawn. He notes that Tony's dressed in a crisp suit. He's probably got some appointment or party or press conference to go to soon.

Right now Sam's in Thor's room (which he was very excited about, even though it has never actually been used by the God of Thunder before) and Bucky is crashing in Barton's. Steve wonders where Barton actually _is;_ Natasha's talked about him, of course, but he hasn't been seen since the Chitauri invasion. Working some top-secret mission, no doubt – but wouldn't he have come home for the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D. itself?

 _Maybe he was compromised during the collapse,_ Steve thinks. _Hope the guy's okay._ He never really spoke much to Barton, since the poor man was a bit busy being Loki's puppet, but Steve would have liked to know him a little better. Natasha assured him that Barton had a great sense of humor.

Tony and Steve watch the show – it's a low-budget cooking show, nothing special – for a good ten minutes before Stark speaks up again. “Should we go out tonight?” he asks casually. “You know, somewhere nice, low-key, out of the public eye . . . I've got just the place—”

“No more shawarma,” Steve interrupts, and smiles wryly at Tony's disappointed expression. “I think room service is our best bet if we don't want anyone seizing Bucky as government property, don't you?”

“Meh.” Tony shrugs. “Excuses, excuses. If you don't like Middle Eastern food, just say so.”

“No, it's not that. The food's fine.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Well, it _is_ a bit strange—”

“Is it because it's not American?”

“No! I—”

“Only eat 100% American beef hot dogs?”

“Stark, I swear . . .”

Tony laughs, throwing his head back in mirth. “I'm just kiddin' ya, Rogers,” he chuckles, slapping Steve on the shoulder.

Steve shakes his head and laughs as well. He's been so tense lately . . . He never thought he'd say it, but he's just so grateful for Tony's lighthearted banter. It takes his mind off of the more serious matters at hand.

Tony smiles at him, sincerity in his eyes. “It's good to see you smile again, Cap,” he says.

“Thanks,” Steve replies, feeling his mood begin to darken again. Bucky's still in Barton's room, either sleeping or just quietly suffering the weight of new memories pushing themselves upon him . . .

And it was all started by Steve saying his name on the street.

“Rogers? You okay?” Tony turns the TV off and looks him in the eye.

Something tells Steve that giving the usual “No problem” isn't going to cut it for the stubborn Tony Stark. When he wants something, he gets it.

Steve lets out a deep sigh. “I can't help but feel that . . . that it's all my fault.”

“Bucky was captured by HYDRA,” Tony says bluntly. “I don't see how you had anything to do with that.”

“No, the . . . the memories,” Steve explains hesitantly. “When I saw his face for the first time . . . we were fighting before, and he had a protective mask on, so I couldn't really . . . When I saw his face, I was so shocked and I just said his name out loud, and he looked, for just a second, just so damn _confused._ Like he was broken or something. And then he went for my throat, but I think that's what maybe made him stop before he killed me on the helicarrier. And then maybe that caused him to run off . . .”

Tony frowns, and Steve realizes that he probably doesn't know most of the story. Jarvis can only tell him so much, only the information that has been written down or recorded and released. Not the real story. Not Steve's story.

“Seventy years of brainwashing, and you think you could have had that much of an impact?” Tony asks.

Steve shrugs. It sounds stupid, he knows.

“So let me get this straight,” Tony says, “Bucky gets captured by HYDRA in World War II. He kills lots of people over the years while you're on ice. What were they doing, keeping him in cryo or something?”

“Exactly. And they thawed him out for every mission. Then, from what Bucky has told me – and it isn't much – I think they wiped his memories before putting him back in cryostasis,” Steve explains, frowning.

“So he maintains anonymity for what, seventy years, and suddenly he's all out in the open, coming after Fury and you?” Tony snorts. “What's with that?”

“HYDRA was making their debut, so to speak. Why bother keeping Bucky a secret anymore if you're going to be the ones controlling the world?” Then a horrible thought dawns on Steve.

 _No, no,_ he thinks. _They would never . . ._ But maybe they would. They were HYDRA. Goddamned _Nazis._ They would do whatever it takes to take over the world – and sacrifice whoever they needed to in order to achieve their sadistic goal.

“What if . . .” Steve gulps. “What if they were expecting him to die?” He feels his eyes begin to tear up with the very thought. Bucky had been so close to death yet again, and Steve hadn't even suspected . . .

“Then it's a good thing that you saved him,” Tony says, interrupting Steve's thoughts. “Maybe you _did_ trigger something in that messed-up brain of his.” He pauses, thinking. “Wait, hold up a minute. How did you know he ran away from HYDRA?”

Steve sniffs, trying to keep his emotions at bay. “We got a tip from the Smithsonian,” he explains. “They caught him on camera at the Captain America exhibit.”

Tony nods, putting it all together in his head. “So he ran away to Chicago to get all doped up, you brought him back to D.C. and fixed him up, and now you're here to get help with his memories.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I feel like I'm up to date now.” Tony sighs, and tosses the remote to the coffee table. It slides across the slick surface and topples onto the floor on the other side. Stark just rolls his eyes and grumbles mildly. “So, he was one of your Howling Commandos,” he says. “The only one to be killed in action during the war, right? Must be nice knowing no one died under your watch.”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, I guess not.”

There's a brief pause. They both mull over their thoughts.

“I think I remember hearing you tell me that he was your best friend,” Tony says, glancing over at Steve.

“Is. Is my best friend.” He frowns and worries his lip with his teeth. “At least, I hope he still will be.”

But what if Bucky never snaps back? Or worse, what if he regains his memories and then decides that he can no longer be Steve's best friend? Why he would ever think that, Steve would never be able to guess – but what if that's what ends up happening? Steve's coped without Bucky before, but that was only when he thought he'd lost Bucky forever. Losing him again . . . that just might kill Steve. He doesn't know; can supersoldiers still die of heartbreak?

“He will be,” Tony assures him with his usual air of confidence.

Steve smiles to himself and nods. He's got a good group of people around him, all willing to help Bucky. Hell, Tony would probably call in all the Avengers if he had to in order to get this thing sorted out. Once Stark has fastened on a problem, he won't let go of it until he's solved it. Or maybe that was Howard. Honestly, they're so alike that Steve has trouble remembering which one is which sometimes.

“So,” Steve says in an attempt to change the subject, “sorry again that I couldn't help out with your terrorist attacks and all.” They didn't get much chance to talk about Tony's brush with the Mandarin the last time Sam and Steve had been in New York. They'd only stayed long enough for Tony to repair the Falcon and thank him for the favor before running off after Bucky again.

“Pepper tells me that they said I was dead on the worldwide news,” Tony says nonchalantly, as if he were talking about some other person. “Did you mourn me? Shed the tiniest tear, even?”

Steve whistles. “Must have missed that.”

“Seriously? What the hell!” Stark groans. “Bruce said the same thing. Where _is_ everybody these days? Running around with S.H.I.E.L.D., doing your little secret missions?”

“Probably,” Steve sighs. “Honestly, I've been out in the field so often that the jet seems more like home than my actual apartment.”

“That's depressing.”

Steve rolls his eyes and turns the conversation back towards Stark. “But you technically saved the President. You must have had things in control. I mean, sort of.”

“Yeah, if you call Killian blowing up my house and experimenting on my girlfriend 'control,'” Tony snorts. “But I had Rhodey with me. Guess it wasn't a big enough deal for Fury to step in, so all's well. I guess.” He pauses. “Oh, right. God, Nick's dead. Jeez.”

Steve looks away. He doesn't want to give away all Fury's secrets – but out of politeness rather than duty. He doesn't work for S.H.I.E.L.D. anymore. In fact, Steve Rogers doesn't really work for anybody right now.

 _Maybe I'll end up working for Stark Industries somehow, like Maria,_ he thinks, smirking to himself. _That would be a sight to see._

Tony catches the look, though. “Steve?” he asks suspiciously. “Are you looking away in dramatic anguish or are you trying to hide something?”

“I wouldn't call it anguish,” Steve says, being careful not to lie. There are enough liars around already; he doesn't need to add to their stock.

Tony seems satisfied with that answer for now, but a doubting glint in his eyes says that there will be a conversation later.

“I heard you gave up your suits,” Steve says quickly, hoping to avoid that conversation for quite a while yet.

Stark readjusts himself on the couch. “I did, yeah.”

“Big move.”

“Yeah. Figured we have enough heroes already, what with you young whippersnappers running about, saving the world all the time,” he jokes, and then frowns. “Although maybe with S.H.I.E.L.D. biting the dust, I should get back in the game.”

“You'd be welcome.”

“I'm getting a little old for it.”

Steve raises his eyebrows in surprise. Tony Stark, feeling his age? “What are you, forty?”

“Forty-four, actually. But thanks.”

“Are you thinking about settling down?” Steve asks, curious.

“I guess you could say that, yeah,” Tony exhales. He glances at Steve nervously, like he never thought they would be having this conversation.

Steve never thought so, either. And it _is_ a bit uncomfortable.

“Hey,” a voice says from behind them. They turn around to find Sam padding into the room, changed into some of the fresh clothes that Tony had provided for them. Not any of his, that's for sure – he probably had an intern go out and fetch some from the nearest department store.

Sam sits down in an armchair near the couch and gives a wide yawn. “So, I just looked into Bucky's room,” he says, “and he's just sitting there on the edge of the bed. I don't think he knows that he can come out.”

Steve stands up immediately. “I'll go get him,” he offers.

Tony rolls his eyes at Steve's reaction and also gets off the couch. “Well, sorry to leave you all like this, but I've got to go to a fundraiser thing in the Hamptons,” he says, checking his phone for the time. “I'm meeting Pepper there, so Maria should be back sometime soon. Uh, I think I've given you all access to Jarvis, so just ask for some dinner and snacks or a movie or whatever. Behave yourselves, children.” He gives them a wink and then leaves the common room.

Sam looks up, as if he can see Jarvis hanging in the air above them. “Jarvis?” he says, testing it out.

“Yes, sir,” the AI responds.

Sam's face lights up like a little boy's at Christmas. “Oh, man, I'm going to have way too much fun today,” he chuckles.

Steve smiles. “Just give me a minute, and I'll be back with Bucky, okay?” he says, beginning to head towards Bucky's room.

“Uh-huh,” Sam mumbles, already having fun commanding Jarvis to turn on the TV and switch channels and such.

Steve shakes his head, laughing to himself, and walks down one of the hallways to go fetch Bucky. Sam's enjoying himself, and Maria's spending quality time with Pepper. Steve and Tony just had a nice chat, and so far, Bucky's behaved himself. So far, things seem almost too good to be true.

 

~

 

And they are. With Bucky silently tagging along in the rear, Sam and Steve spent the afternoon exploring the 91st floor (which Jarvis assured them was also “Avengers property”) since they had nothing better to do, and discovered a great deal of gadgetry that Tony had made for the Avengers. Steve even found a spare shield – not quite vibranium-caliber, but certainly close. Thank goodness someone had found his real shield in the wreckage of the helicarriers – he's gotten used to having it with him whenever he has to fight.

After exploring, they reconvened in the kitchen on the 92nd floor with Maria and had themselves a nice dinner, everyone talking fairly happily (aside from Bucky, although occasionally he would glance up with the very beginnings of a smile starting to touch his lips at some stupid joke Sam made) and enjoying themselves in general. They watched a movie on Netflix – something Steve had become familiar with when he wanted to watch all the older movies and television shows on his list of things to catch up on – afterwards, and now Steve is debating whether he should call it a night or stay up half an hour longer.

Thanks to the nap he had in the morning, he doesn't feel tired enough to sleep for a good eight hours yet, but Sam and Maria have already retired to their respective rooms, and the only person who's up would be . . .

Bucky.

Before he knows what he's doing, Steve finds himself standing outside of Bucky's door.

 _No, no,_ he thinks, shaking his head. He's about to turn away when some strange urge takes control of him and he finds himself knocking on the door. _What the hell am I doing?_

Timidly, Bucky opens the door and stares at Steve with a look that's part disbelieving, part afraid. As if Steve were going to hurt him. He's been hurt so much in his life. Far too much. Steve will see to it that it never happens again, no matter what he has to do to make it so.

“May I come in?” Steve asks, not meeting Bucky's gaze.

Bucky stands aside. It's invitation enough, so Steve steps into the room and looks around. It's about the same as his bedroom, except more . . . purple. Apparently Tony saw fit to only paint Steve's room in almost annoyingly patriotic colors.

Steve looks back at Bucky, who is standing rigidly. It's unlikely that he'll sit down unprompted, so Steve motions for him to take a seat in one of the two chairs facing the flatscreen TV. He takes the other seat, and they contemplate each other for a few awkward minutes.

When the silence gets to be almost deafening, Steve blurts out, “How did you escape the helicarrier crash?” It's a question that has been itching at him ever since he woke up in the hospital. At that point he hadn't been sure if Bucky was alive and in HYDRA's possession, or alive and elsewhere, or floating dead in the Potomac.

“I jumped into the river,” Bucky says simply.

Steve nods. He doesn't know what answer he was expecting. “And then you ran away.”

Bucky hesitates, and looks away. “I pulled you out of the water,” he says in a low voice. “I do not know why I did that.”

Steve nearly gasps aloud. _Bucky saved me?_ he thinks, his eyes widening in shock.

His best friend looks almost ashamed of having admitted this. He closes his eyes and Steve can see his jaw clench in agitation.

“Thank you, Bucky,” Steve whispers, and places a hand on his friend's arm.

Bucky flinches at the touch, but doesn't pull away. That's amazing progress. Steve pulls his hand back before Bucky becomes uncomfortable with it. He can't push too far, or Bucky might snap.

But Steve can't help but smile. Not only did Bucky not kill him, but he went so far as to save his life. It seems like he's always been doing that, whether it was from bullies or thugs or enemy soldiers. Bucky has always been there for Steve, even now, when he's so broken and lost. The beginnings of tears prick at Steve's eyes, and he hastily wipes them away before they can spill over. _God, since when have I become so emotional?_ he wonders.

Bucky clears his throat. It seems that the subject at hand is making him a bit uncomfortable – almost like he's embarrassed at Steve's gratitude. “I did not know I was called the Winter Soldier,” he admits, changing their topic of conversation.

“Does it bother you?” Steve enquires.

“I . . . do not like it,” Bucky decides, shaking his head slightly. “I do not remember having been called that.”

“They wanted to keep you a secret.”

“I know.”

They sit in silence for a few more minutes.

“So, uh,” Steve stammers, “what do you think about this place?” He gestures around the room.

Bucky shrugs just like he used to before the war, and Steve's breath hitches in his throat. It's just so _like him_ that . . . It's so hard to believe that so much could have happened to his best friend, the boy from Brooklyn who went around saving people from bullies. Who saved _Steve_ from bullies.

“It's alright, I guess,” Bucky says, and then frowns, his eyes widening. He's picked up his accent again – he's always had a slight New York accent, even though he tried to hide it from the other troops – and its appearance has shocked him into sudden silence.

 _It's coming back!_ Steve wants to sing. It might not be much, but it's coming _back._

Then Bucky winces and slumps forward, putting his head in his hands. He grunts in pain, and his whole body tenses as if the horrible sensations in his head are something it can fight off.

“Bucky,” Steve whispers. “Oh, Buck, I'm so sorry.”

The Winter Soldier glances up through the pain, his eyes showing his confusion. “I don't understand,” he groans, and then squeezes his eyes shut again. Always trying to block out the pain. "What do you have to be sorry for?"

“I didn't save you,” Steve admits in a low, broken voice. “If I'd just reached out a little more, I could have . . . I could have saved you.”

“I don't think so,” Bucky replies, slowly sitting back up. He still winces every few seconds, as if the searing headache has aftershocks, like an earthquake. His tone gets cooler and more distanced as he speaks. “I do not remember much, but I believe that it was not your fault.”

Steve tries for a smile, but can't bring himself to try to be happy, even for Bucky's sake. Of course he knows it's not his fault. Everyone has told him that, multiple times over. But there's still just so much _guilt_ weighing on his shoulders. He thought that rediscovering Bucky would lift some of it, but it just keeps piling on and on. That's why he can't rest until he's made things right.

This time, he's going to be the one saving Bucky, not the other way around.

“Do you . . .” Steve exhales, still shaky. “Do you remember what your favorite food was?” he asks, smiling as the memories of a happy childhood flood his mind. It was so much simpler back then, and of course Bucky was always there for him. His rock.

Bucky shakes his head, but he looks intrigued instead of, well, dead inside. That's a start.

“Ice cream,” Steve says. “We never really got to have it much, what with the Depression and all, but it was your favorite. Just plain old vanilla.”

“I . . .” Bucky frowns. “I do not know what it is.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Then we're going to have to fix that,” he replies, full-on grinning now. Surely a scoop won't hurt Bucky or his progress redeveloping his memory? Can't hurt to try. “Come on,” he says, standing up and offering Bucky a hand. “I'm sure Stark's got some stored away in a freezer somewhere.”

Bucky stares at the outstretched hand for a few moments, and then hesitantly takes it. He pulls himself out of the armchair and grimaces – his head's probably still pounding from everything they've talked about.

Steve gives him a kind, excited smile. “Ready?”

Bucky nods, and attempts to return the smile. It's not too pretty, and it's more of a grimace than a grin, but it's something.

 _It's something,_ Steve thinks, leading Bucky out towards the kitchen. _It's coming back._

_Bucky's coming back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had to improvise Bucky's favorite food because I couldn't find what it was annnywhere... hope it's alright!


	19. Chapter 19

Saturday, September 20th, 2014

The Soldier takes longer to eat breakfast than the others, but Steve sits with him even after Hill and Wilson have left. The Soldier – he still has trouble calling himself “Bucky,” but he's been trying – mainly thinks of Rogers as “Steve” now. He has never been familiar with anyone on a first-name basis before (at least, in this life), and he's found it to be strangely comforting.

But whenever he begins to feel at peace or experiences even the first shreds of happiness, a headache erupts in his brain or a horrible memory resurfaces. Karma, maybe, for having killed so many people. He knows that he was a soldier even before he was first wiped, but at least those killings were during war. His kills made as the Winter Soldier, on the other hand – assassinations, all of them. Mainly unsanctioned hits, which means that he's no better than a murderer. Worse, most likely.

The Soldier finishes his eggs and goes to wash his plate with Steve, who's doing the rest of the dishes. He's reminded of washing their ice cream dishes the night before. He has had food since he escaped the helicarrier crash, obviously, but nothing very good. Some instinct or programming always told him to look for protein, and so he bought cheap granola bars in pharmacies and greasy hot dogs from street vendors. Dom and the other dealers and addicts threw food at him every once in a while, but he was always so intoxicated that he rarely fully processed what he was shoving down his throat. Having gourmet pizza last night and homemade scrambled eggs this morning was a very nice change from his usual fare.

But the ice cream. That must have been the best thing he'd ever tasted. Steve told him that there were many other flavors that he could try, but he couldn't imagine anything better than what he had been served the other night. Out of the corner of his eye, the Soldier saw Steve watch him as he ate, just smiling away.

The thought makes the Soldier pause while drying a plate. Steve Rogers is always so . . . happy for other people. It's very strange. No one else much acts like that. Wilson, maybe, once in a while.

“Buck? You okay?” Steve asks, concern etched into his features.

The Soldier nods, and resumes rubbing the plate with the dishrag. He's often losing himself in his thoughts these days. There's just . . . so much. Too much, sometimes. And yet there is still so little in his head that he feels his mind rattle around in a skull that's practically devoid of any concrete memories.

They finish the dishes in silence and soon leave the kitchen to find Wilson and Hill. Wilson has promised to teach them how to play a new video game. The Soldier has no idea what that means, but if it's a game, it must be at least mildly entertaining.

They walk into the common area, and the Soldier stops dead in his tracks.

There he is, their host, standing there and laughing with Wilson. Maybe exchanging a joke. Looking all dapper in a clean, well-tailored suit, with combed hair and a smile on his face.

Howard Stark.

The only face from the files that stuck in his mind. Someone the Soldier knew personally, although he wasn't anyone particularly close to him.

He is on a rooftop with a sniper rifle. Unusually high-powered. He is shooting through supposedly bulletproof glass today. He trains the rifle on the right front tire of the car driving towards him. One shot. The tire blows and the vehicle begins to skid. Three shots through the front windshield, instantly killing the driver. Turn. One shot through the windshield of the oncoming gasoline truck. Collision assured. The ensuing explosion is enough to destroy all evidence of his involvement. He waits until he is sure that his targets have died in the backseat before he leaves.

Now he is running through the halls of a facility. The air is thin, but he is used to it. His weapon is unlike the other soldiers', quite simple compared to their firearms pulsing with strange blue energy. He has his orders, and his superiors are under attack. His left arm is new and uncomfortable, but his pace is already steady and strong. He passes a woman running the other way, holding a rifle and wearing a determined expression. She seems familiar, but then he has passed her already. His head begins to pound, a horrible pulsing right behind his eyes. He slows to a stop and watches the man he was sent to kill wrench his shield from between the closing doors and disappear behind them into the corridor beyond.

Steve.

“Bucky! _Bucky!”_

The Soldier finds himself on the floor, gasping and sobbing. The pain is something he can handle; he has been through worse. But the confusion, the uncertainty, the overwhelming _guilt._ It's just too much.

He is in the present again, but he can only stare in horror over Steve's shoulder at Tony Stark.

“I'm so sorry,” he whispers hoarsely, tears dripping down his cheeks. “I'm so sorry.”

Steve blocks his view, which doesn't much help matters. He's tried to kill Steve so many times before. He fell from the train and the amnesia set in, and the first thing he did after recovering was make an attempt on Steve Rogers' life.

“Steve,” he whimpers.

“I'm right here,” Steve replies, and gathers him into a firm embrace.

The Soldier stiffens immediately, all emotion seeping from his mind. The panic at being touched overpowers the horror of what he has done. He can't be touched like this. He can't. He can't. The memories will be too much, he knows this deep in his heart and he can feel them rumbling underneath the surface and the panic is wrapping around his chest and it's getting harder and harder to breathe and he just wants it to all _stop—_

Steve slowly pulls away, lingering. The Soldier feels himself begin to calm down, but suddenly he feels this tugging need for Steve to wrap him in his arms again.

_No,_ he decides. _Too risky. I might relapse and hurt him._ So he pulls away.

Finally, the panic and guilt fade until they are dull and in the very back of his mind. He is back in control of himself again. Being in control is very important to him, although he can't quite explain why. But it feels much, much better this way.

“Was it something I said?” Stark tries to joke, although his eyes are tense with unease.

_That is my fault, as well,_ the Soldier thinks dejectedly. He always seems to break whatever he touches. Here, he'd just ruined the dynamic everyone had worked so hard to build, despite all the distrust and fear circling around. And within one day, he had managed to destroy everyone's trust in him.

“Tony, maybe you'd better leave,” Steve says quietly.

Stark just nods and obeys. The Soldier looks around and finds Wilson standing behind him in a protective stance. Ready to restrain him, but also ready to defend him, if necessary. The gesture is oddly comforting. Wilson knows what he's doing.

“Another episode?” Wilson asks gently, coming into the Soldier's view with slow, steady steps.

The Soldier nods. He knows how Howard Stark and his wife died. He was the cause of it. The wife's name . . . had been . . . Maria. Maria Stark. And they had to have been Tony Stark's parents, his dead parents, and the Soldier is the cause of all Tony's grief. Now how can he stay here and pretend that he had nothing to do with it? How can he take advantage of Stark's hospitality while he's just _lying_ all the time? He is a murderer and a _liar._

“Bucky, it's okay,” Steve tells him softly. “Did Tony trigger it?”

The Soldier just nods again.

Something in the look in Steve's eyes tells him that he knows. He knows what the Soldier has done to Tony Stark. Somehow, the knowledge is there.

And instead of guilt swallowing him up, the Soldier feels a bloom of relief. He is not alone in this secret. Here Steve Rogers is, the icon of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, telling him that they will deal with whatever this is together. That the Soldier can trust him, tell him anything, and nothing between them will change. That he is safe and he is deeply cared about, despite everything he has done.

And as the Soldier lets himself be picked up off the floor, steered towards the couch, and sat down next to Steve, who comforts him with gentle, hesitant touches and kind words, one thought echoes over and over in his broken mind:

He has friends here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the second flashback that Bucky experiences is the so-called "Easter egg" in Captain America: The First Avenger. For those of you who don't know, it occurs just after Steve has a conversation with Peggy in the halls of the HYDRA compound in the Alps. Steve slips between two closing doors that he'd held open with his shield, and we see a figure between the doors just as they close behind Steve. Many people assume that the figure is Peggy because they'd just been talking and she was holding a rifle, but others say that if you pause the movie and look closer, the figure has a different build and might possibly have a silvery arm. I don't know if it's quite true or if it's been confirmed by Marvel, but at least for this story, I'm inclined to go with the second option. So guess who? :3


	20. Chapter 20

Sunday, September 21st, 2014

It's been a day and a half since Barnes' last episode. Sam wonders if maybe they should keep a count. “__ Days Since Last Workplace Incident,” that sort of thing. It's a bit mean, but Steve tells him that Barnes once had a hell of a sense of humor. If they ever get him back, maybe he'll appreciate their attempts to make an otherwise dark situation a bit lighter.

Barnes and Steve are hanging out with Tony and Pepper in the common area, with Sam watching them from the side of the room as he sips on a glass of water. A movie's playing in the background, but they're all having too good of a time to really pay any attention to it. Tony, Pepper, and Steve are reminiscing about the alien invasion of New York, and Barnes is quietly watching them smile and laugh together at tales of past battle feats. It seems that even Pepper is familiar with combat, having recently been injected with some serum or something that made her both really angry and flaming - in the literal sense.

Sam's glad that they're having a good time, he really is. And normally he'd join in on the fun; he has plenty of good war stories – maybe not so much about the war, but about the people who he was fighting with – but somehow . . . somehow it feels like they all belong, and he's the odd one out.

He doesn't particularly mind. He might wander around a bit, maybe leave for a coffee since he's pretty sure no one's tracking  _his_ movements (Jarvis checked the NSA database and it seems that his name is clear). Hell, he could go running if he really wanted to. Hasn't really done that in a while, not since that day in Chicago when they picked up Barnes. He could use a break from constantly monitoring Barnes' condition and Steve's mood. He feels responsible for them, somehow. Steve hasn't been making the greatest decisions since he discovered Barnes was alive (Staying on the helicarrier when rescue was literally two minutes away? Not the best call.) and it seems like his confidence has really taken a hit. And Barnes, well, he's just a hot mess, really. They got him shaved and cleaned up a while ago, but his hair's still long and unmanageable and his mental state is about as unstable as a volcano scheduled to erupt in three minutes.

Sam finishes his water and leaves the glass in the kitchen. He ducks out of the common area and goes to the wall-to-wall windows of the rec room to think. Staring out at the city, high above the noise and commotion . . . it's all so peaceful from up here. He can almost see his old neighborhood, if he squints hard enough . . .

“Hell of a view, huh?”

Sam turns around to find Maria behind him. And she's wearing . . .

“Nice dress,” he says, admiring what must be the latest style of casual dresses. Like Tony, Pepper only wears the best – and that must go for her friends, as well.

Maria blushes and rolls her eyes. “Don't even start.”

“No, you look great,” Sam says.

“Thanks.”

They look out across New York for several minutes without talking. It's nice to just have some company for a change.

“So you're not joining the Avengers party on the couch?” Sam asks, looking down at his hands. Huh. He got a cut on one of them somehow.

Maria snorts. “Not exactly an Avenger, or an Avenger's girlfriend, or an Avenger's BFF. So no.”

“But you were here when the invasion happened, right?”

“Sort of. I was more overseeing damage control on the helicarrier,” she sighs. “Fury left me in charge while he argued with the World Security Council about nuking NYC.”

Sam nods. They're both sort of outsiders here, even despite his closeness with Cap and her friendship with Pepper. “How's working at Stark Industries?” he asks.

“Great,” Maria replies, trying to sound cheerful. “I'm so grateful to Tony and Pepper for taking me in. Here I'm protected, at least legally. I'd love to go work for the CIA or somewhere I can be of more use, but . . . it's pretty clear that I know too much to be let loose in the world.” Her voice drops at the end of her sentence. The past few months must have been so rough for her. Without Fury to take the brunt of the accusations and blame, it's fallen to Maria to justify S.H.I.E.L.D.'s actions and defend what's left of her organization.

“You're handling everything very well,” Sam compliments her. “It must be tough.”

“Nah.” Maria shrugs, but she gives him a small smile that seems to say, _Thank you for understanding._

“Do you know anything more about S.H.I.E.L.D.? Have you had any contact with your former agents?” Sam enquires, curious. He never knew much about the organization in the first place, but from what Steve had told him, it sounded like a relatively great place to work. Until all the HYDRA snakes came out, that is.

Maria sighs, and taps her foot nervously on the ground. “A few of them,” she says, staring out the window with a faraway gaze. “I've also had some contact with, well, you know.” She glances up at one of Tony's security cameras. Jarvis is always listening.

_Fury,_ Sam thinks, filling in the blank. He's been doing a good job of staying off the grid over the summer, wherever he is in Europe.

“How many people know about it?” Sam asks, careful not to expose the secret. It's probably better that Stark, Potts, and Barnes don't know about it. The fewer that do, the safer Fury is.

Maria frowns, internally counting. “Us four,” she says, nodding to him. She means Romanoff, Steve, and the two of them - everyone who was involved with bringing down Project Insight. “A few select agents, a team of six, and a HYDRA agent that we captured. So less than fifteen altogether.”

“What HYDRA agent?”

She shoots him a warning glance. “An infiltrator,” she sighs, crossing her arms. “I made a bad call a while back. It's over now.” She looks away, avoiding his eyes.

Sam doesn't pressure her to say more. Whoever that agent was, she must feel guilty as hell about it if she had something to do with it. Sam watched Rogers and Romanoff practically fall apart as their friends and co-workers were exposed as traitors. Steve occasionally blamed himself, said that he should have seen it coming – at least in Rumlow's case. Sam didn't want to say anything, but he was glad that guy was dead. Fighting him had not only been extremely taxing, but also annoying – Rumlow did this long villainous monologue about HYDRA's power and supremacy, and he just wouldn't _shut up._

“Like I said, you've been dealing well,” Sam says quietly. “The hearings and all, and everything else that's happened.”

Maria chuckles lightly; she's back to her usual self now. “Be careful, Wilson,” she says, an amused glint in her blue eyes. “If you get me started on Congress, you'll be hearing about it all day.”

Sam throws his head back and laughs. “I don't know,” he says, grinning, “it might not be so bad.”

She rolls her eyes. “So where did you end up finding Barnes?”

“Englewood,” Sam answers. “That's on the—”

“I know where it is.”

Sam tilts his head, curious, and Maria flips her hair self-consciously. She's wearing it down, for a change. It looks nice.

“I grew up in Chicago,” she explains. “I know where all the bad neighborhoods are. And that's a pretty rough one. Barnes sure knows how to pick them.”

“You can say that again,” Sam sighs.

“Anyway, uh, S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Maria says, bringing them back to Sam's original question. She lets out a deep breath. “It doesn't really exist anymore. I mean, maybe one day, it'll come back. But it won't be anything like it was before. It'll stay small this time – if there is a 'this time,' anyway. Small, like it was before . . . before everything happened.”

She looks so unhappy; everything she was working for was lost because of some Neo-Nazis trying to rule the world.

“If you ever need to talk, I'm here for you,” Sam says quietly.

Maria gives him a sincere smile. “Thank you.”

“And thanks for helping out with Barnes.”

“No problem. Glad we found him. I just hope he'll . . . stabilize,” she sighs. “Wonder why Tony set him off? I mean, granted, it's _Tony,_ but all the same . . .”

Sam swallows. While they'd been searching all over the country for Barnes, Steve had told him what he and Romanoff had discovered at Camp Lehigh – and not just Zola's consciousness stuffed in a dated computer. The information that Zola had given them while bragging about HYDRA's accomplishments. They'd only seen brief flashes, but it was enough. Enough to piece together that the car crash that killed Howard and Maria stark had been no accident – and enough to hint that the Winter Soldier may have had something to do with it.

Obviously, they had to tell Tony at some point. But Sam's going to leave that up to Steve, or maybe even Romanoff, although her bedside manner isn't anyone's definition of soothing. Maria Hill, on the other hand . . . he supposes it can't hurt to tell her. After all, she'd shared her secrets about Fury with him, and that was Level Whatever information.

“Stark looks a lot like his father,” Sam says slowly, hoping Maria will take his hint.

“Right, right, Stark _was_ involved with the Commandos, wasn't he?” Hill muses. She looks at Sam, who gives a mild shake of his head. “What?”

“Yeah, it's really too bad, isn't it,” Sam says, making meaningful eye contact with Maria. “About the car crash. Tony's a brave guy to go through that alone.”

Maria frowns, but then her eyes suddenly widen as she gets what he's trying to say. He can see that she has about a thousand questions lingering on the tip of her tongue, but they can't talk about it. Sam doesn't know Stark particularly well, so he doesn't know whether or not he's the spy-on-your-house-guests type, but they shouldn't be taking any chances. As much as Sam values honesty, he strongly believes in white lies. And despite only having known Tony Stark for a short time, he really likes him and doesn't want to see him hurt by this new knowledge.

It's also pretty clear that Stark has poor impulse control. If Barnes is in the room, who knows what could happen, and how it could damage them both?

“Wow,” Maria whispers, biting her lip. “That's . . .”

Whatever she was going to say is cut off by the sound of her phone ringing. She answers it immediately – work comes before everything else with her, just as usual.

Sam waits for her to finish the call. She gives him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I've got to go,” she says. “We have a minor crisis on our hands.”

“And naturally, you can't talk about it,” Sam says drily.

“You know how it is.”

“You superspies,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Always full of secrets.”

Maria sighs. “Yeah. It's been nice talking with you, Sam. Really nice,” she says, and then leaves.

Sam just looks after her, thinking. Eventually, he leaves the window and heads over to his room. He meets up with Steve in the hallway, and, oddly, Barnes is nowhere in sight.

“Where's Barnes?” Sam asks.

“Tony's taking him to the pool in the North Tower,” Rogers replies, leaning against the wall of the corridor. He looks a bit more relaxed, but still exhausted. He was probably up all night worrying again.

Sam nods. “Sounds good. You trust them alone together?” he asks.

“For the time being. I mean, I'm going to go down in probably ten minutes. But I figure that Bucky might want a break from me. I'm pretty sure that just looking at me gives him a headache,” Steve laughs sadly.

“You're leaving those two alone, even after what happened yesterday?”

Steve's expression darkens. He knows exactly what was going on in Bucky's head, even though they never actually spoke about it. The episode is more than enough to prove that the Winter Soldier was, in fact, responsible for the death of Tony's parents.

“When are you going to tell Stark?” Sam asks gently. “You can't hide it from him forever.”

“You're right,” Steve says, nodding to himself. “He has a right to know. I don't think he'll take it too badly, though.”

“I'm not just talking about HYDRA being responsible,” Sam says, lowering his voice and glancing around. He hopes Jarvis has better things to pay attention to right now. “I'm talking about _Bucky_ being responsible.”

Steve looks away, his jaw working. It's hard to accept that your best friend has assassinated people in cold blood, even when you've seen him tear apart soldiers in the heat of battle. Somehow, it's something completely different.

“I'm going to talk to Bucky first,” Steve says quietly. “I'll give him the chance to tell Stark himself. If he wants to apologize, I'm going to let him. No matter how long it takes for him to get to that point.”

Of course. Sam had completely forgotten about Barnes' side of the story. He must be feeling so guilty right now, knowing what he's done. It's clear from what he was whimpering during the flashback that he clearly remembers the incident and feels a great amount of remorse for what he did. It wasn't his fault, but that doesn't change the fact that it happened, and that it happened by his hand.

“I should probably get changed for the pool,” Steve says after a few minutes of contemplative silence. “You should come with.”

“Nah, you Avengers have your stuff to talk about,” Sam says, laughing mildly.

“Come with,” Steve repeats, his eyes imploring. He gives Sam a friendly smile and pats him encouragingly on the shoulder. “I'd really appreciate you being there with me. I need someone there to help me make sure that Bucky's metal arm doesn't fry in the water.”

Sam laughs and scratches his head. “I guess it couldn't hurt,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly. But it means a lot to him that Steve wants him there, despite the camaraderie he has going with Stark and Barnes.

“Hey,” Steve says, ducking his head slightly so that he can look Sam directly in the eyes. “You're my wingman. I've spent less than a week in Stark's company, and to be honest, most of that time was us fighting with each other about who was the better superhero.” He laughs bitterly. “We had a lot of catching up to do, but Stark is still the same guy as before, and as much as I respect him . . . You're the guy I can count on to be there for me. I'm sorry if I've been inconsiderate to you these past few days. With Bucky and everything that's been going on—”

“I'm going to cut you off there,” Sam says, grinning. Cap's always so overly polite and proper; it's enough to make Sam embarrassed. “Listen to yourself. You don't need to apologize – you're going through a lot. Don't worry about me. I've got a heart of steel and all that. It's fine. Really, Steve.”

Steve gives a relieved sigh. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

“Okay, I wasn't sure—”

“So where's this pool we're going to?”

Steve stops mid-sentence, pauses for a few seconds, and then busts out a belly laugh that Sam hasn't seen, well, ever. The Cap's got his best friend back, and everything is going well. Sam can understand his mirth.

“C'mon,” Steve says, nodding with his head. “Get changed and I'll show you.”

Sam can't help but smile at Steve. The guy's so happy now, even when everything still has the potential to go belly-up.

_Maybe things are finally changing for the better,_ he thinks, feeling his mood begin to lift. Then he walks into his (Thor's!) room to get ready for an afternoon of swimming with the superheroes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there was a little AOS reference in there for ya with Maria ;) Also, just a heads-up: I am going to be away for two weeks, and unfortunately I won't be able to post any chapters during that time. But as soon as I get back I'll have another one up and ready! Thanks for the lovely comments, and see you in two weeks!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry this is so late - enjoy!

Wednesday, September 24th, 2014

Steve's heart hammers in his chest as they step out of Tony's private limousine and onto the street curb. He has no idea why he's nervous – it's not like _he_ has an appointment with a medical professional today. It's extremely unlikely that anyone will recognize them here, and there's even less of a chance of Bucky's identity being revealed, even though his hair is still “hella long,” as Tony put it.

Bucky's been cleaned up for a while now, completely off of painkillers and thoroughly checked over by Tony's medical staff (who have been sworn to secrecy, naturally). He's taken to shaving in the mornings with Steve, even – a ritual from long ago. Steve wonders if Bucky clearly remembers it, or if some hidden part of him is pushing him back towards his old habits. Steve would ask, but he's too afraid of pushing his best friend too far. It doesn't take much to shatter Buck's nerves anymore.

Steve holds the door open for Bucky and Tony as they walk inside. Bucky waits for him just inside the door, and then resumes walking in step with Steve. When he's with other people, Bucky always clings to Steve's side like a child. Steve supposes that he should be lamenting Bucky's loss of independence, but he just feels relieved, and much happier than is good for him. Something about Bucky needing _Steve,_ instead of the other way around, makes Steve puff up his chest and walk proudly. He's protecting Bucky now.

He doesn't need his own saving anymore.

Tony leads them through the hallways of the building. Many of the offices are dedicated to medical practices, but there are a few businesses and small law firms as well. They take the stairs up to the second floor and eventually stop at a door at the end of a hallway.

Steve is about to say something about the apparent lack of security when Tony keys in a password and does a fingerprint scan to only open the door. This certainly isn't a normal doctor's office.

They step inside to find themselves in a small waiting room. Elegantly decorated, furnished with modern, posh chairs, and stocked with standard magazines laid out on a table for waiting patients to read. There's no one in the room besides a receptionist, who looks extremely fit and very capable of punching someone through a wall.

_What kind of place is this?_ Steve wonders.

The receptionist looks up at Tony and raises an eyebrow. “Didn't expect to see you back here, Mr. Stark,” she says, beginning to type something on her keyboard.

“Just showing the patient in,” Tony says, gesturing towards Bucky.

Steve gives Bucky a little nudge forward. The Winter Soldier has grown more used to little touches like that, and now he doesn't flinch whenever Steve puts a hand on his shoulder or accidentally brushes past him or inadvertently bumps their thighs as they sit on the couch.

Bucky steps up and he looks surprisingly calm. His eyes, usually full of emotion (or pain, unfortunately), look dead today. That's how he hides his nervousness, by shutting down and becoming ice-cold. Hopefully the doctor will be able to fix that, through therapy or whatever treatments are standard for post-traumatic stress and induced retrograde amnesia.

“James Barnes?” the receptionist asks, her steel-gray eyes turning softer as she looks at the man before her. He looks cool and collected, but anyone who takes another look can see that he's a wreck on the inside.

Bucky swallows and nods stiffly, glancing over at Steve. Steve gives him the most encouraging smile he can muster.

The receptionist steps out from behind her desk and opens the door to a hallway inside. “I'll show you the way,” she says kindly, and leads Bucky out of the waiting room.

With relieved sigh, Steve sinks down into one of the comfortable-looking chairs. He rubs the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Bucky's going to be just fine here. Hopefully.

“You okay?” Tony asks, still standing.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, and then looks up at Tony. “What kind of doctor's office is this, anyway?”

“Well, I don't like to brag,” Tony said with a mischievous glint in his eye, “but I own this practice. Stark Industries does, that is. Pepper thought it would be a good idea to have counselors and doctors for the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents we took in. I asked my favorite therapist to leave her practice and come here, and she did. And of course, a few ex-agents volunteered to protect this facility for a decent salary. The receptionist is one of them, obviously.”

Steve lets out a low whistle. “Wow,” he murmurs. “I never knew you were such a do-gooder.”

“Like I said, genius billionaire playboy philanthropist.”

Steve laughs, shaking his head. Tony Stark. Who would've thought he would be the one taking care of all the people that HYDRA hurt?

Maybe, somewhere deep inside of him, Tony knew. Knew that HYDRA was responsible for his parents' death. Or maybe he hadn't guessed at HYDRA specifically, but another organization. Maybe he'd realized that the car crash hadn't been an accident, that there were plenty of people around the world who had wanted Howard and Maria Stark dead.

Steve looks up at Tony and swallows. He doesn't look forward to the day when Bucky makes his apologies to Stark. But it will come, eventually. It has to. Tony deserves to know, especially considering all he's done for them.

“I've got some errands to run,” Tony says, and then clears his throat. “Like, nothing special, but if you want to come along . . .”

“Nah. I'll stay here, wait for Bucky.”

“It might be a long time. I mean, he's scheduled for a two-hour session, and knowing Dr. Yin, it could push to three,” Tony chuckles. “She told me – well, my secretary, actually – that she had a lot of tests to administer.”

“Tests?” Steve repeats, alarmed. “I thought we were taking Bucky to a therapist!”

“Not today. Sorry, I thought you – oh, well.” Stark runs a hand through his hair and blows out a sigh. “My therapist will be making house calls at the Tower for Bucky, but her schedule's pretty tight and my security team has reason to believe she's being followed because of my involvement in buying up S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.”

“And _you're_ not being followed?” Steve snorts.

“Trust me, we weren't. The amount of decoy cars driving around New York for us this afternoon is staggering.”

“I guess.”

“Anyway,” Tony continues, “I'm trying to arrange an appointment as soon as possible for dear Mr. Barnes. But Dr. Yin had an opening today, so here we are. She's a neurosurgeon, top of her class, and she's our best bet at finding out what HYDRA did to Bucky's brain. Hence, tests.”

Steve sighs. “Okay,” he grumbles. “But you should tell me these things beforehand.”

“My bad.” Tony checks his watch. “Sorry, bud, I've gotta run. You sure you want to wait up for him?”

Steve just nods. There isn't any other place he'd rather be right now. Sam and Maria are at the shooting range anyway, so there isn't anyone else on the 92nd floor of Stark Tower at the moment. And he'd rather be here just in case something goes wrong rather than puttering around "the Avengers' lounge," as Sam calls it.

Tony gives Steve a wink and then leaves the room. The receptionist comes back at that point, and gives Steve a fairly interested glance. Steve waits for her to say something, but she doesn't and just turns back to her work. Paid for discretion, most likely. She certainly has the air of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and probably knows all about Captain America already. It isn't like he was ever a state secret.

_I wonder what her clearance level was,_ Steve thinks as he goes to pick up a magazine. He chooses the Reader's Digest over Newsweek because S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA still somehow manage to make the cover of newspapers and magazines, even after nearly half a year.

Steve settles back into the chair. It's going to be a long couple of hours.

 

Monday, September 29th, 2014

Bucky's with Tony's therapist again. She said her name so quickly when she was introducing herself the first day that Steve didn't quite catch it, but he figured he could always ask later. She'd assured Bucky over and over again about their doctor-patient confidentiality and told him earnestly that she would never pressure him to talk about anything he was uncomfortable sharing with her. Steve's glad about that; now Bucky finally has the privacy he hasn't had in seventy years.

They're on one of Stark's so-called “R&D floors,” in a private little room with couches and pool table. Not the most professional of atmospheres, but friendly and comfortable. Right now, Steve's waiting for their first session to end.

The appointment with Dr. Yin went well, as far as Steve knows. Bucky didn't say much about it. They should be getting his test results back within the week. Maybe then they'll know what HYDRA did to his brain to make him forget everything and everyone he ever knew.

Steve paces up and down the hallway as he waits for Bucky to finish with the therapist. He's so anxious to hear if she's helping him, if Steve can do anything to help his best friend's progress, if everything's going to be okay. He knows he should take a deep breath and a step back and give Bucky some more space, but he can't bring himself to leave. What if Bucky needs him? What if he has another flashback and reacts violently? Steve's pretty much the only person who can restrain him. And even then, it's not always a certain thing that Steve will be able to keep Bucky from hurting himself or others.

And then there's the small part of Steve that worries that, after going through therapy and regaining his memories, maybe Bucky won't need Steve anymore. Maybe he won't want to be around him as much. Maybe it'll be like the old days where Steve was always trying to catch up to Bucky, who was so kind but sometimes a little oblivious.

_And that will be just fine,_ Steve thinks, but even in his head, his words sound forced. He doesn't want Bucky to leave him behind again.

The door to the room where Bucky's having his session opens, and he and the therapist walk out. Steve halts his pacing and gives Bucky a quick once-over. He seems to be alright, not obviously shaken up or anything like that.

The therapist gives Steve a warm smile. “Hi, Steve,” she says. “Everything was perfectly fine. You didn't have to wait for us.”

“I wanted to,” Steve stammers quickly. “How was the . . .?” He doesn't really know what to call it. “Session” sounds too formal. “Chat” is just inappropriate.

The therapist looks to Bucky, and he clears his throat. “Fine,” he mumbles, but he looks mildly happy about it. Or at least content.

Steve exhales slowly. “Good. Good.”

The therapist gives him another smile, but it looks like she's trying not to laugh this time. Everyone finds Steve and his somewhat maternal instincts entertaining. “I'm going to go see Tony about scheduling and payment, okay?” she says. “I'll see you soon, Bucky.”

“Bye,” Bucky says softly.

_He seems so comfortable with her,_ Steve thinks in amazement. He isn't like that with Steve. _Are you actually_ jealous _of her?_ he thinks to himself. _That's stupid. Of_ course _he's more comfortable with her. Looking at her doesn't put him in physical pain._

“Steve?”

He snaps out of his tumultuous thoughts right away at the sound of Bucky's voice. “Hi, Buck,” Steve says, immediately putting a smile on his face. Bucky needn't be troubled with his problems when he has such serious ones of his own.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, frowning in concern.

“Yeah, of course I am,” Steve lies with a laugh. “How about you? Everything was . . . okay?”

“Yeah.”

Steve wants to ask him more about his session, but he bites his tongue. If Bucky wants to share with him, he will. He shouldn't feel pressured to do anything. Especially not by Steve.

They stand there in awkward silence for a few minutes, trying not to make eye contact with each other.

“So you were standing out here the entire time?” Bucky asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I was,” Steve admits.

Bucky rolls his eyes. Just like he used to. Steve's heart clenches painfully at the similarity.

Steve laughs despite his sorrowful nostalgia. “Am I that overprotective?”

Bucky shrugs. “You worry too easily,” he says quietly. “You have reason to worry, sure, but I think . . . actually, I _know_ that I can handle it.” He pauses, thinking. “I guess what I'm trying to say is you don't have to . . . you don't have to worry about me. I'll be okay. I think.”

Steve swallows and nods. Bucky's independence is important to him. To the both of them. And Steve should respect that - no more hovering, no more being a mother hen.

_Bucky's got this,_ he thinks to himself. _He's okay._

Bucky must have noticed Steve's frown because he steps closer and hesitantly puts his right hand on Steve's shoulder. Steve looks up, eyes wide. Bucky hasn't done that since . . . since the Forties.

“I don't like seeing you so unhappy,” Bucky murmurs. “That hurts more than the headaches.”

“The headaches you get when you look at me.” Steve doesn't mean to sound bitter, but he winces as the words come out of his mouth. He sure _sounds_ bitter.

Bucky takes a step back and releases Steve. “They're getting better,” he says, looking away. “There's less to remember now.” He turns back to Steve, and his eyes are warm. The ice has melted away now. “I'm okay. The question is, are you?”

Whatever that therapist did with him during those few hours, it's caused Bucky's confidence to double. Before this session, he still shied away from Steve and said very little. Now he's practically a normal human being again.

And unnervingly observant.

Steve sputters at the question at first, but after a few seconds he realizes that Bucky will easily see through any lie. He sighs and hangs his head in defeat. “I . . .” It's hard to admit, but he does it anyway. “I don't want to lose you again. I've always been losing you. To the war, to HYDRA . . .” _Deep breath. You can do this._ “To your girls and your military buddies and even to your own mind. I'm done losing you, Buck. I don't know if I could take it one more time.”

Bucky's mouth has dropped open in surprise, and Steve feels his eyes beginning to water. _Not here,_ he thinks desperately. _Please. The last thing Bucky needs is to see me break down and cry in front of him._

“Steve, I'm not going to leave you.” Bucky's reply comes as a whisper. “I've never . . . at least, I _think_ I've never wanted to leave you. I can't remember, but did I _want_ to join the army? Steve?”

“You were drafted,” Steve mumbles. “So I guess not.”

“Did I  _try_ to fall off the train?”

“No.”

“Then you have your answer,” Bucky replies triumphantly. “I didn't want to leave you then. And I don't want to leave you now. You're all I have.”

Steve's heart pounds erratically at that, but he shakes his head. “And when I'm not? When you have a life again?”

“You were my best friend,” Bucky says firmly. “I won't leave you.”

Steve nods. God, he's been such an idiot. Here Bucky is, struggling with immeasurable pain and guilt and the horror of not knowing his own mind, and he's comforting _Steve._ It should be the opposite – but then again, it's always been this way. Everything is slowly going back to normal, whether Steve likes it or not. “Thanks, Buck. You've always been the strong one,” he laughs quietly.

Bucky looks away, and his metal fist clenches. “I don't think I have,” he replies softly, and then turns to leave.

Steve watches after him, until Bucky rounds the corner. His mind is numb. Was that a fight? Was that them making up? What even _was_ that conversation? Steve shakes his head. Why does he always have to make it about himself? Sam and Tony and everyone else always think that he's so selfless, but he's really not. He's the most selfish person he knows. Always trying to prove himself.

“Steve?”

Steve snaps his head up to find Bucky looking at him from around the corner, a bemused expression on his face. “Yeah?”

“You coming or what?” Bucky tries to joke, an attempt at a smile curving his lips.

Steve sighs and feels himself smile, despite everything. “Yep,” he replies, and trots after Bucky. They walk down the hallway together to the elevator bank, and somehow it just feels right. They brush shoulders and Steve's comforted by the touch.

_Everything will be okay,_ he realizes. They're not safe yet, and Bucky isn't the same person he used to be – but will either of things ever happen? And do they need to for them to be happy?

And as they wait for the elevator and Steve looks at Bucky, he realizes, _No, they don't._

_We're okay._


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be my last update in about a week or so, I'm away again with literally no internet connection. But after that I WILL update more consistently, I promise!

Friday, November 21st, 2014

The air has chilled considerably, and the dark clouds in the distance threaten snow later on in the day. But as of right now, the sun is shining brightly overhead, its heat attempting to beat down through the frigid end-of-autumn air. Dead leaves blow across the streets of the city, brown and curled. The weathermen predict that tonight the temperature will drop below zero.

Bucky exhales and watches his breath blow away in the cold air. He smiles faintly, watching it float up and vanish. He's learned to take pleasure in the little things in life now. Before, he never had the time.

“Buck?”

He turns at the sound of his name being called. Steve's standing there a few feet away, looking concerned, as always. It seems that Bucky's presence has put a permanent wrinkle between Steve's eyebrows.

“We don't have to do this,” Steve reminds him gently. “You don't have to push yourself.”

“I know. I want to,” Bucky replies, and shifts in his light jacket. The pedestrians hurrying past them have their winter coats on already, but Bucky's been through far worse in Russia. He can remember the terrible winters in Siberia now. Winter in New York seems like a sunny spring day compared to night missions in the middle of January during the Cold War.

Steve gives up on trying to dissuade Bucky, and Bucky's thankful. The first months were bad, he'll admit it, but now with therapy and medications, he's dealing much better. He'll stumble across memories now, picking them up like discarded toys, long lost underneath the bed - rather than being hit head-on with an onslaught of pain and guilt and terror. That was an aftereffect of half a decade of brainwashing and mind-wiping, and luckily it could be subdued by the proper treatments.

He still has nightmares almost daily. They aren't enough to make his scream out, like before, but often he finds himself so shaky afterwards that he can't sleep the rest of the night. He's spent many long hours wandering around the 92nd floor of Stark Tower, battling insomnia and boredom. Eventually Jarvis alerted Stark to his nighttime behaviors and Stark taught him how to play video games. Now Bucky has something to do, and he's been getting rather good. Although he's extremely proficient at first-person shooters, he often prefers quieter, more intellectual games with soothing visuals. They rarely bring back any painful memories and usually instill a sense of peace within him.

Stark. Right.

Bucky falters in his step, and Steve frowns. “It's nothing,” Bucky says before he can ask, and Steve reluctantly drops it.

Bucky knows that he'll have to talk to Stark about his parents. Apologize, tell him what really happened. But Bucky just isn't ready for that yet. Even despite therapy, he doesn't know what will happen if he reaches back and digs up more memories of Howard Stark and the way he died. And if his son reacts badly to the news . . . well, Bucky has a sinking feeling that his own reflexes will kick in and the Soldier will take over again. He doesn't want a fight. He doesn't want to cause any more harm or damage to the people who have helped him so much.

_There's nothing I can do about it now,_ he thinks, and comes out of his head so that he can better enjoy the walk.

He takes a good look around as they walk onto the Brooklyn Bridge. Tourists crowd the sidewalk, taking pictures of the Hudson River. He feels like this place should be familiar to him, but he can't recall any specific memories of it. Maybe it was so fully ingrained within himself that his memories of the bridge blurred together. Or maybe those memories were just gone forever, lost to the brainwashing of HYDRA.

Steve seems to know where he's going, though. They leave the bridge soon and Steve guides Bucky through the streets of Brooklyn.

“Are we getting close?” Bucky asks, his stomach curling into a knot. He's strangely nervous, which he tells himself is illogical and impractical – but he can't seem to shake this feeling that if he doesn't remember any of his old neighborhood, he won't be able to move on. Like he needs to face his past in order to find his future.

_That's ridiculous,_ he tells himself. _And since when do I care about the future?_ He'd never given it much thought before. Then again, most of the time he'd been on the front lines or risking his life to complete his missions, and "the future" was only going to be the next day of battle.

“Just a few more blocks,” Steve says reassuringly. He pauses, taking in Bucky's tense expression. “It'll be okay.”

Bucky nods and they continue on in silence.

Then Steve stops in front of a building. Bucky looks up at it. “What's this?” he asks.

“Your apartment building,” Steve answers softly. He absentmindedly smiles up at the brick building, as if he were remembering something nice.

Bucky swallows. Shouldn't he be hit in the gut by countless memories? Instead, he looks up at the brick building and feels nothing but emptiness. Even though it should mean the world to him, it's just an old building. Nothing.

“Maybe we should go inside,” Steve suggests. “Everything's changed so much, I mean. Maybe we can find the actual apartment.”

“There's probably someone living there,” Bucky sighs dejectedly. He's so frustrated that he can't remember. By this point, he thought he would be able to call up memories at will, given the right stimulation. But it's proving to be a much more difficult journey than he thought it would be. “It's fine,” he mumbles.

Steve frowns and puts a hand on Bucky's shoulder.

All of a sudden, the memories come flooding in.

He's in his apartment with Steve, smiling at the thought of having his own place after so many long years at the orphanage.

Steve's sitting at the kitchen counter, sniffling slightly. Bucky comes over and gives him a pat on the back and does his best to comfort his best friend about his mother's recent death.

He's sitting on the front steps of the building, looking up at the few dim stars that somehow manage to shine through the night sky crowded and muddled by bright city lights. He's wondering why it's happening all so fast. He looks down at his shipment orders and curses the day that he was drafted.

He's looking around his apartment for the last time. Ever. He hopes he'll see it again, but he has the sinking feeling that he won't return from the war in one piece. He's just glad that Steve was rejected again. He doesn't want his best friend in danger like that.

And now Bucky finds himself about to collapse on the sidewalk, with Steve hurriedly steering him over to the steps of the building. As he lets himself fall to the steps, he wonders at the familiarity of them. So much has happened here.

“Buck? What's happening? Talk to me,” Steve urges him, turning Bucky's face so that he can see into his friend's eyes. “What's wrong?”

“I remember,” Bucky breathes out, still staring out into space. “I didn't want you to enlist.”

Steve laughs. “Yeah, you really didn't.”

“I didn't want you to get hurt. I never wanted you to get hurt,” Bucky murmurs. “I wanted to protect you from it. From all of it.” And look how well he's done _that._

Steve swallows and looks away. He's probably remembering how Bucky tried to kill him half a year ago. Bucky clenches his jaw. Some protector he is.

“Hey,” Steve says after a few minutes. “Do you want to . . . go in?”

“No.” He doesn't need to.

Steve nods to himself, thinking. “Maybe you've had enough for one day. Uh . . . I know a good dessert place nearby,” he says slowly. “We could get some ice cream.”

Bucky's about to refuse when he looks at Steve. He looks so damn _hopeful_ with those puppy eyes that he can't help but agree. Steve's always had that effect on him. The little guy always went around, getting into all sorts of trouble, but he'd look at Bucky with such an innocent, sweet smile and Bucky couldn't stay mad at him for long.

It's amazing that he can remember all that now. He's so thankful for Steve and everyone and what they've done for him.

“Okay,” Bucky relents, and has to grin when he sees Steve just light up at that. He's still such a little kid, even though he's been through so much. It's nice to see that once in a while.

They leave the apartment building behind and Bucky resists looking back over his shoulder. It's in the past now. A past he's only beginning to remember, and a past that he might choose to forget. He's still unsure whether or not he can be the same man he was before – and if he should even be _trying_ to be the same man. What happened, happened. Maybe it was pure chance, or maybe it was for a reason, but Bucky is a different person now. He should learn to accept it. Or at least that's what his therapist tells him.

But when he looks at Steve, he feels like he should be trying for his best friend's sake. Steve still sees him as the kid he grew up with, the boy who defended him from bullies and held him back when he wasn't strong enough to face them on his own.

Bucky isn't him anymore, and he feels like he's disappointing Steve with every step he takes away from that person he used to be.

_Don't think about this now,_ he tells himself. _Tonight, you'll have more than enough time. But right now, we're going to get ice cream._

His stomach growls at the thought and Steve laughs at him. Bucky smiles again. Everything is alright. At least for now.

They get to the dessert place that Steve was talking about. It's a little cafe, quite modern. Steve must have discovered it after S.H.I.E.L.D. thawed him out. They sit down inside, near the window. Steve lets Bucky take the seat that faces the door, since he knows that the Soldier in him is uncomfortable whenever he can't see a clear escape from the room.

Unfortunately, when they try to order, the waitress informs them that they don't have any vanilla ice cream in stock, as incredibly strange as that may be. Apparently a shipment was delayed.

“You could try chocolate,” Steve suggests.

Bucky wrinkles his nose, and looks down at the menu. He has no idea what half of these items are, so he picks one at random. “Um, I'll have . . . this,” he tells the waitress, pointing at something on the menu.

“Tiramisu?” she asks, writing it down on her note pad. She turns to Steve. “And for you, sir?”

“Just chocolate ice cream,” Steve mutters, looking a little confused at Bucky's choice.

The waitress leaves them, and Bucky leans forward. “What's a tiramisu?” he asks, embarrassed.

Steve shakes his head. “No idea,” he says. “I think it was invented, er, after our time.”

Bucky shrugs. “I guess we'll see, then.”

They make idle conversation for less then five minutes, and then the waitress is back with their desserts. She sets a small bowl of chocolate ice cream before Steve, and a plate with some sort of cake on it in front of Bucky. “Will that be all, gentlemen?” she asks, beaming at Steve in particular.

“Yes, thank you,” Steve replies.

After she leaves, Bucky pokes at his cake with a fork. “So it's a cake.”

“Looks like it.”

“With a funny name.”

“Apparently.”

Steve starts in on his ice cream and Bucky spears a bite experimentally. Hesitantly, he eats it, aware that Steve's watching him the entire time. He's surprised to find that it's good. There's definitely cake in there, but there's also something creamy that tastes like coffee. Bucky can't quite put a finger on it, but whatever it is, it tastes really good. Amazing. Within two minutes he's eaten the entire slice and has determined that tiramisu is way better than any vanilla ice cream he's had. And what if you combined the two?

“Wow,” Steve laughs. “Next time I'll have to order that.”

Bucky waits as Steve finishes off his chocolate ice cream before starting to speak. He's gotten better at initiating conversations, more confident in himself.

“I saw the footage of New York,” he says quietly, scraping his fork against his empty plate, making little swirls in the remnants of his dessert.

Steve sighs, remembering the invasion. “Yep, aliens exist,” he laughs sadly. “I met one of them, even.”

“It looked dangerous.”

“It was.”

“You're always doing dangerous things, Steve,” Bucky says, but his voice is hard and his eyes glint with anger. “You're always the one sacrificing themselves for everyone else.”

Steve swallows and looks away. Maybe he remembers how much Bucky hated him doing that. Going after bullies when he knew he couldn't win. “Stark did it in New York,” he mumbles under his breath.

“I'm not talking about New York!” Bucky realizes that his voice has grown louder and louder, and now he drops it again. “I'm talking about putting that airplane underwater with _you_ inside of it,” he continues. “I'm talking about bringing down the Insight helicarriers and refusing a ride from the goddamned helicopter coming to pick you up.”

“How did you—?”

“I talk to Wilson sometimes.”

There's a cold pause.

Then Bucky sighs. “I never wanted you in danger,” he admits, hanging his head. “I wanted to protect you from it. Shield you from the line of fire.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, “I don't need protecting anymore.”

“Apparently, you do, or else I wouldn't have had to haul your sorry ass out of the Potomac,” Bucky snaps back. He's sounding more and more like his old self all the time.

Steve and Bucky glare at each other for a bit. Neither one breaks eye contact, even when the waitress comes with their bill. Steve just takes it from her hand and resumes staring at Bucky.

Eventually he sighs and runs a hand through his blond hair. “I need to fight, Buck,” he murmurs, almost as if he's speaking to himself. “I need to fight for my friends, and my country, and for what I believe is right . . . because there's nothing else I have. You have to understand, when I did those things . . . when I sacrificed myself . . . it was for the greater good, but, but at that point, I had nothing left to lose.” His eyes meet Bucky's again, and it's clear that he's suffered more than he's let on.

“You had Peggy,” Bucky mumbles. He'd only met her once or twice as Bucky Barnes, and then another time as the Winter Soldier in the Alps. She was the woman who had caused his first memory relapse after his initial treatment at the hands of HYDRA. Now he remembered her clearly.

“No,” Steve says, shaking his head. “That's not what I meant. I thought you were _gone,_ Buck. I thought you'd _died,_ so of course I was going to sink the Valkyrie. And when I found you again . . . even though you'd changed, you were still _you._ And if dying on that helicarrier would do anything, _anything_ to help save you, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I'd do it again, right now.”

Bucky looks away, feeling his eyes begin to water. “You should really get a life,” he jokes gruffly, trying to make light of the situation. “Get a girlfriend or something.”

He looks back and Steve's smiling at him. Once, that would have made his brain pound painfully. Now, it's causing the same sensation in his heart.

“Nah,” Steve says. “I think I've got enough on my plate already, with you here and everything.”

“Oh, don't let me hold you back,” Bucky says sarcastically. “But . . . if you really don't want a girlfriend, you should really stop wearing those shirts.” He raises an eyebrow in challenge.

Steve looks down. “What's wrong with them?” he demands. “Sam's always saying that, too! Do they not fit?”

“Steve, I don't know who the hell buys your clothes, but they're two sizes too small! I mean, unless you're going for that super-buff, skin-tight look.”

Steve snorts and rolls his eyes, and then they both burst out in laughter. Bucky can't remember the last time he laughed like this. It feels good. It feels . . . right.

Bucky gives Steve a warm smile, unable to stay mad at him. No one could ever stay mad at Steve Rogers for long, not ever – that much he knows, even if he can't remember all of his past.

“Just don't . . . don't do that sort of self-sacrificing shit anymore,” Bucky sighs eventually, running a hand through his long hair. He's unsure whether he should cut it or not. It's not like the hairstyles from World War II are “in” anymore, and he's never tried anything different.

“Buck . . .”

Bucky's voice is hard. “Promise me. Promise me you'll protect yourself, if you won't let me do it for you.”

Steve swallows, his eyes never leaving Bucky's. “I promise,” he says slowly.

Bucky nods, and leans back in the booth. “Good.”

They sit there in silence for a few more minutes, mulling over all that has happened. Bucky knows he's making good progress, and he feels like his world is slowly coming together again. He's putting the pieces back together again, reassembling the memories that had been so forcefully unraveled by HYDRA. He's fixing himself, and he can see that it's fixing Steve.

And that's all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of notes. When I'm talking about degrees, they're Fahrenheit (so 0 degrees is pretty cold). Also, I decided to make Bucky have a thing for tiramisu because I couldn't find his favorite food and the only food that Sebastian Stan (who portrays him in the MCU films) has ever called his favorite was, you guessed it, tiramisu. So that's why that happened.
> 
> See you in about a week!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, sorry about the long wait! Warning - much sappiness ensues in this chapter - I couldn't resist :3

Wednesday, November 26th, 2014

Sam rubs his eyes as he stumbles into the kitchen. He stayed up late last night going out to a movie with Maria and some of her friends from work. Sam hasn't seen many of his friends since he started helping Steve out with the whole Bucky business, but he didn't have that many to begin with. Everyone else has families now anyway, and kids and that whole deal tend to draw even the closest war buddies away from each other. Sam doesn't particularly mind; he has a new – and admittedly cooler – crowd now.

He had a great time with Maria at the movie, and they went out for drinks afterwards. Just hanging out, as friends, although Stark leered at Sam enough when he returned home less-than-sober.

Maria only drops by the upper floors of the Tower occasionally, since she lives elsewhere in New York and most of her hearings are now over. Sam busies himself with volunteering part-time at a local soup kitchen. The 92nd floor of Stark Tower was getting a bit dreary in the past month or so, and although it's nice to not really need a job for once, Sam needs something to _do._

Tony, of course, is still trying to get Sam to buy a nearby apartment and work for Stark Industries. Sam doesn't think he could be much help in upholding national security in the way that Stark has in mind, but the offer _is_ tempting. And it has lots of benefits – not only dental and medical, but the added perk of hanging out with Earth's mightiest heroes on a semi-regular basis.

Steve's sitting at the kitchen island, staring at his glass of orange juice as if he can make it explode through sheer mental concentration.

“Morning,” Sam mumbles, grabbing himself a protein bar from their stash in the cupboard. They go through about a box every day, what with Sam, Steve, and Bucky all living under the same roof.

“Good morning,” Steve replies, but he sounds hesitant. Sam's about to ask what's up when Steve says, “Sam, can I talk to you?”

“Sure,” Sam says slowly, leaning himself against the counter. _This doesn't sound good,_ he thinks, but he has no idea what Steve could want to talk about. Unless there's another friend of his from World War II who's been iced, experimented on, and recently woken up. _Anything but another cross-country trip!_

Steve pushes his orange juice away and looks at Sam, but doesn't say anything.

“So . . . what do you want to talk about?” Sam asks, taking a bite of his protein bar.

Steve sighs deeply. “I feel like I haven't been a good friend to you lately,” he admits, looking down at his glass again. “I've been so overly concerned with Bucky that I've sort of just let you hang around here without anything to do or anyone to talk to.”

Sam protests: “Um—”

“Seriously, Sam,” Steve continues earnestly, “you don't have to stay here if you don't want to. You're not obligated to do anything for me, I mean, you've already done more than enough.”

Sam frowns. “Are you saying you want me to leave?”

“No! No, never,” the Cap says hastily. “I just . . . what I'm trying to say is, if you _want_ to leave, I understand. We're pretty boring here.” He gives a sad laugh. “It's not exactly an exciting environment.”

Sam can't argue with him there. Bucky and Steve rarely leave the house, especially since Tony is absolutely paranoid about someone finding them. Sam wonders if Stark would feel responsible if they _were_ attacked by escaped HYDRA agents, even if there was nothing he could do.

He's learned that everyone on the Avengers team cares about each other. Sam gets it – you forge unbreakable bonds in the heat of battle. Your life is on the line and you have no choice but to trust your teammates if you want to survive. It's nice though, that everyone looks out for each other. Tony and Dr. Banner seem to have a steady friendship, and the Black Widow and Steve are not only coworkers, but also good buddies. Romanoff looks out for that Hawkeye guy (who Sam's only heard about, never met), and even Steve and Tony have reconciled and begun to trust each other more, despite their differences in the past. The only person who's missing from all this is Thor, and he's a god from an alien planet. It's unlikely that he _needs_ any protecting – especially by humans.

But Sam wants to be a part of it. He's not going anywhere.

“Steve, I don't know what's gotten into you,” Sam says, and pauses to swallow the last bit of his protein bar, “but I'm not leaving anytime soon. I've got plenty to do here, and plus, if I left, that means I'd have to go back to work,” he jokes.

Steve smiles a little at that, but doesn't seem convinced that Sam wants to be here.

“What makes you think I want to leave, anyway?” Sam asks, intrigued. Has he been acting mopey or something lately? He thinks back to a few weeks ago when he was getting bored in Stark Tower. Maybe that's why Steve thought he wanted to break off.

It takes Steve a few moments to answer. “This sounds really stupid,” he says slowly, “but I thought maybe you felt left out because Bucky and I were getting along better.”

“Man, I know he's your best friend—”

“And I know you know that. It's just, I feel like I'm leaving you out all the time,” Steve explains with a helpless look in his eyes. “And I really want you to feel included, to feel like you belong here. Because you do.”

Sam snickers. “That's so touching, I feel like we're going to have this big bromantic moment—”

“Aw, shut up,” Steve says, grinning.

“Steve,” Sam says, all serious now, “I know this is where I belong. And you and Bucky being best buds, that's fine with me. Actually, now that I think of it, I'm pretty sure we've had this conversation before. Why are you always so worried about me?”

Steve shrugs, looking away. “I guess I just feel like I gotta look out for my friends,” he mumbles.

“Full-on Captain America mode, huh?” Sam teases. “I'm fine, seriously. I have more than enough to do here, with my volunteering, and my, uh, friends, and . . .”

Steve looks up sharply, suddenly quite interested. “You mean Maria?” he asks, a wicked smile growing on his face.

Sam blushes and looks away. “Yeah, so what?” he mutters, embarrassed.

“Nothing,” Steve says quickly. _Much_ too quickly. He gets up, downs his glass of orange juice, and puts his glass in the sink. “I guess I'll be seeing you,” he says with a grin. “I've got to take Bucky to another appointment with Dr. Yin, but I'm sure you can handle some of the preparation for tomorrow, right?”

Sam frowns. “What preparation? What's going on?”

“Thanksgiving,” Steve calls over his shoulder as he leaves the room. “I'm sure Maria will help if you ask her.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Ha, ha, very funny!”

Steve just laughs and turns around the corner, no doubt to wake Barnes up. The guy's been sleeping better since his therapist put him on mild melatonin supplements to help with his insomnia. From what Steve has told Sam, about half of the pills are just placebos to get Bucky to think that he's been drugged so that he'll sleep better without becoming totally reliant on sleeping meds to get any rest.

Sam's glad that Bucky has been doing so well. He's almost completely adjusted to modern society, he's getting over his paranoia, and he's begun to work through his PTSD. It's going to be a long process, but he's making great progress so far. Things are looking up for him, him and Steve.

And Sam, too – if Ms. Hill will, indeed, help him with Thanksgiving preparations.

 

~

 

“So, what are we making?” Sam asks, peering over Maria's shoulder to look at the old cookbook she has in front of her. She was more than prepared to offer her culinary services, especially since Stark had given her the whole weekend off, starting today.

“We,” she says, beginning to rummage through the cupboards in the kitchen, “are making pumpkin pie. Everything else is going to be made fresh tomorrow.”

Sam nods - sounds good. “No turkey?” he asks jokingly.

Maria widens her eyes and gives him a look of terror. “I can't be around turkeys,” she whispers in all seriousness. “Not since the incident of '05.”

Sam's mouth drops open. “Oh, God, I'm so sorry—”

And then she starts laughing, bending over in a fit of giggles. “I got you there, didn't I?” she chuckles, her blue eyes bright and warm.

Sam can't help but join in. “Yeah, you did,” he says. “So are you a vegetarian or something?”

“Hell no,” Maria says, turning back to the cupboards. She pulls out several spice containers. “I just suck at prepping turkeys. Every time, it ends up half-frozen and half-burnt. I think we'll leave the tricky stuff to Tony's caterers,” she says with a wink.

“Who's all going to be there?” Sam asks.

Maria takes out several cans of pumpkin pie filling, and then rests her elbow on the counter as she counts on her fingers. “Tony and Pepper, Steve and Bucky, you, me,” she says, and then pauses. “I _think_ Banner's coming, but that hasn't been confirmed yet. And knowing Romanoff, she might drop by just for fun, if she's not busy running and hiding or finding Barton. So at least six, which means we should make about . . . three pies.”

“Three?” Sam raises an eyebrow. “Do you think that's going to be enough? I mean, have you _seen_ Steve eat?”

Maria laughs. “Four, then,” she decides, and grabs another can of pie filling. “Wanna help?”

Sam nods eagerly and comes over. She puts him in charge of opening the cans while she makes the pie crusts. They work in silence for a while, side by side. Maria mixes the dough for the crusts, and Sam quickly cranks through the cans, dumping the contents of each into an industrial-size mixing bowl.

“So how's our friend in Europe?” Sam asks quietly, glancing up at the ceiling as if he could spot Jarvis listening in on them.

Maria looks around, too. In this world plagued by rival spy organizations, you can really never be too careful. “I don't know,” she admits, and she sounds disappointed. “He hasn't been in contact with me much for a while. He's stepped down from his position and now someone new is in charge.”

Sam knows he can't ask who's running S.H.I.E.L.D. behind the scenes now, so he asks the next most important question: “Do you trust them?”

“Absolutely,” Maria says immediately, and she gives a small smile. “He's given everything to this. He deserves it more than anyone.”

“Good.”

Sam now watches Maria roll out the dough for four pie crusts. She works quickly and efficiently. She's probably done this with her own family in the past.

“So where'd you learn to make pie crusts?” Sam asks casually. “It doesn't look too easy.”

“It's easy enough, as long as you keep it cold and don't overwork it,” she replies. “Can you get out some pie plates? I don't know where they are in this kitchen.”

He obeys and begins to clatter around the kitchen, searching the cabinets. He finds four of them, surprisingly, in a corner cabinet at the far end of the kitchen. Which makes him wonder, _Why does Tony have four pie plates in his kitchen, anyway?_

They put the pie crusts in the plates, with Maria giving him a few warnings about not touching the dough too much, and then stick them in the oven to bake.

“So where _did_ you learn all this?” he asks once they're finished.

Maria's already gone over to the bowl with the pumpkin filling, and she gives it a quick stir before answering. “My grandmother,” she answers. “She taught me everything I know about cooking, which isn't too much.”

“Do you see your family often?”

“Not since my grandmother passed away, no,” she replies, and her voice is grave. “My dad and I don't get along.”

“Sorry,” Sam says, wishing he hadn't asked. Nothing spoils the mood like bringing up tense family history.

“Not your fault,” Maria says brightly. “Now, why don't you get out some sweetened condensed milk while I measure the spices?”

Feeling like an idiot, Sam does what he's told. _Why did I have to ask that?_ he groans internally. _Nice going, dumbass._

They work in silence for a few moments before Maria speaks up again. “So what's with the sudden Thanksgiving frenzy?” she asks, seeming to have forgotten about the awkward moment. “I didn't think you were much a of a cooking fanatic.”

“I'm not,” Sam laughs. “Steve told me to ask you for help. Although it looks like you're the one doing all the work – sorry about that.”

“Don't be,” Maria replies, flashing him a beaming smile. “I'm glad everybody's getting together tomorrow. I thought it'd be just another one of those years where I'm sitting at home alone.”

Sam frowns as he stirs in the condensed milk. “You never hung out with your S.H.I.E.L.D. agent friends?”

“I used to,” she says ponderously, as if she's remembering something from long ago. She takes a moment to dump some cinnamon into the bowl. “I've been in a commanding position for a while, though, and the other agents don't – didn't – really see me as a friend. Just a boss. Also, you know, the _hours_ and stuff, and security reasons . . .” She trails off, thinking.

“What, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents can't have boyfriends?” Sam jokes.

It works - Maria smiles again, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a cute way.  "They can, but it's not advised," she explains.  "At least not for field agents, given the danger that they're put in regularly.  I suppose the science nerds and commanding officers could . . . but you never really see anyone much outside S.H.I.E.L.D., you know what I mean?  And workplace relationships rarely work out, so."

“Right.”

“But I've got a new job now,” Maria says, giving Sam a playful wink. “Opens up all sorts of possibilities.”

Sam chuckles, shaking his head, although his heart starts beating faster. Is she just messing with him? “I bet.”

Maria bites her lip nervously. “So, uh, what are you planning to do after the holidays?” she asks quickly, changing the subject.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you staying in New York? Or going back to D.C., or . . .?”

"I think I'll stay here," Sam decides quietly. It's a good idea, especially because it's where all his new friends are - and where they'll probably stay. "I grew up here, so I know the area pretty well. I'm thinking about getting an apartment somewhere, finding a job . . ."

Maria's face lights up in excitement. "Have you thought about coming to work for Stark?" she asks. "I'm sure Stark will give you a great deal . . ."

"He's already made the pitch, don't worry," Sam replies. "I just don't know, though. I don't know if it's the right thing for me."

"Of course," Maria says graciously, although she sounds disappointed. "Do you know what you want to do, though?"

Sam has to think about it. He's a soldier and he always will be. Putting his life on the line is nothing new, and when Steve or Tony or the Avengers call him – which he hopes they will – he'll be ready. But he doesn't want to make that his whole life. He doesn't know if he could ever live with the secrets that Agent Romanoff has to, or if he could dedicate his whole life to a security organization like Maria has. Stark Industries sounds tempting,but . . . if he works there, he knows it won't be the department that everyone expects him to work in, where it's a new mission every day.  He's got this feeling that he has a different purpose in life, a real calling. And it's not being one of Tony Stark's spies.

"I might train to become a professional therapist," he says, and as the words fall out of his mouth he knows that's absolutely what he wants to do. “I like helping people. It's something that I can do, something constructive.”

Maria nods, and gives Sam a thoughtful, maybe even admiring, glance. “So much has been destroyed recently,” she says softly. “It'll be good to have people like you building it back up again.”

Sam feels his heart swell at that praise, and looks away, trying not to blush. He clears his throat. "Do you think there are any more openings for therapists at Stark Industries? To help former agents adjust?" he asks, curious.

"Absolutely," Maria replies. "Just ask Stark. I'm sure he'll give you the full run-down of everything he's got going on."

"Oh, I'm sure he will," Sam says sarcastically, and they both laugh.

As they continue making the pumpkin pies, he can't help but think that the future - should everything go as planned - is going to be amazing. He'll be doing something he loves, in the city he loves . . . He glances at Maria, who gives him a smile in return, her cheeks blushing slightly.

Maybe even with the people he - well, you know.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long! This one was a bitch to write. :P

Sunday, December 14th, 2014

The night sky grows even darker with every passing minute, the charcoal gray clouds thickening and swirling overhead. A bitter chill rides on the howling wind that pounds against the glass of the windows, and Steve frowns out at the bright city, his brow wrinkling in deep thought. The stormy weather outside reflects his inner mood.

He and Bucky are fighting.

It isn't the first time, and he knows it isn't going to be the last, but it still hurts him deeply. It's about the usual matters – Steve likes to sacrifice himself too much, Bucky is overprotective and controlling, blah, blah, blah. At least, that's what Steve says whenever somebody (usually Sam) asks him what's going on.

In reality, the core of his and Bucky's relationship is slowly crumbling, falling apart completely. Or at least that's what it feels like.

They were always like this, even back before the war. Steve would go off and do something admittedly stupid, and Bucky would have to rescue him from whatever situation he'd gotten himself into. Then Bucky would give him a long lecture about what Steve could and couldn't do, and Steve would get angry at Bucky's tone and overprotective nature. And somewhere in the midst of all that, jealousy would rear its ugly head. Steve wanted to be strong like Bucky, and Bucky wished he could still have the same optimistic mindset as Steve. But despite all that, they worked through it each time.

Steve thought it would be different after the serum, and especially after Bucky had been turned into the Winter Soldier. But it isn't.

They've fallen into their old patterns once again, and despite all that has happened to them, it's like nothing has changed. They're still the same people, even through freezing and brainwashing and serums and experimentation and battles and everything else.

Looking out into the coming storm, Steve knows that he should just accept this and move on, accept that Bucky will always be the strong one (which his best friend will vehemently deny) and that he himself will always be the same person (despite everyone telling him how much he's changed). And that all of that is okay.

But he can't stop wanting to be the strong one, wanting to rescue Bucky for once, wanting to prove himself to the world. Everyone tells him over and over again that he has more than proven himself. He was prepared to give his life for his country, and he has demonstrated his worth in battle and service time and time again. He keeps on hearing this, but it never really sinks in, because although he comes off as the overly-patriotic, self-sacrificing, dutiful soldier, none of that is really important. The only thing that matters to him is that he hasn't yet proven himself to Bucky.

Maybe he'll finally get the chance someday, and everything will change.

In the meantime, he and Bucky are fighting, and he hates it.

Steve is about to turn away from the windows of the 92nd floor when his phone rings. He checks it – Natasha's calling. He swipes the phone more clumsily that he would have liked and holds it up to his ear. “Hello?” he says.

“Jesus, Steve, no need to shout,” Natasha says, laughing slightly.

Steve rolls his eyes. He's not a complete idiot when it comes to technology, but somehow everyone seems to know more about it than he does. You can never really catch up when you're seventy years behind. “What's up? You know it's midnight, right?”

“Yeah, I know. I was just checking up on you,” she replies. “How's everything?”

“Great.”

“What's wrong?”

“I'm fine.”

“Okay.” The good thing about Natasha is that she doesn't press when Steve doesn't want to talk about it. She takes his word for it, which he greatly appreciates. Sam, on the other hand, will hound him until he relents and spills all the beans, something about “getting his feelings out” and other therapeutic crap. “So,” Natasha says, drawing out the word, “have you gotten around to calling Sharon?”

Steve laughs quietly, careful to not be too loud lest he wake someone up. “Still stuck on that, aren't you?” he sighs, shaking his head. “No, I haven't called her.”

“I thought you had a lot of downtime now.”

“I do, I just haven't called her.”

“I thought you liked her!” She sounds put out.

“I do, I just haven't called her,” Steve repeats, rolling his eyes.

The ex-Russian spy gives an exasperated sigh. “Steve, you need to form some new relationships.”

“I have!” he immediately protests.

“Like who?”

He has to think for a moment. “Sam.”

“That was more than half a year ago. And if you say Bucky, I swear to God I'll come over there and smack you,” Natasha threatens, and she sounds dead serious. “He does not count.”

Steve grunts. He's got nothing. “Okay, I guess I see your point.”

“Good!” He can hear her smile through the phone. “So when are you calling Sharon? Do you want to make it a double date, just to keep things on the safe side?”

“Natasha,” Steve says gently, “I'm not going to date Sharon.”

There's a pause. Then, “Why?”

Steve sighs. “She's Peggy's niece,” he says, cringing as he says it. He'd actually considered asking her on a date when he thought she was just his next-door neighbor. Now he can't get past the fact that she and Peggy are related. “It's . . . weird.”

He expects Natasha to argue, because for some reason, she's taken a peculiar interest in his love life. But she doesn't. “All right, I see your point,” she allows. “But seriously, Steve, meet someone. I think it'll do you good. Especially since you and Bucky are on the outs more often lately.”

Steve groans aloud. “Did Hill tell you?”

“Of course she told me.”

“Of course. The thing is, I don't _want_ to meet someone else,” Steve grumbles.

“Oh, I see,” she says thoughtfully, and Steve's eyes widen at her tone. Calculating. Knowing. She couldn't have possibly deducted—oh, no.

_Remind me to never be flippant with a master spy,_ he thinks to himself. “Natasha—”

“Gotta go, Steve!” she says, sounding altogether far too happy. “Make up with Bucky for me, okay? Tell Tony I say hi.” And she hangs up, just like that.

Steve locks his phone and groans into his hands. Why does he have to be so _stupid?_ Now he'll never hear the end of it from her. Funny how just a few words can give away your biggest secret.

Still groaning, Steve turns away and stares out across the common room of the 92nd floor. Nobody else is awake, and Steve isn't feeling even remotely tired yet. His verbal sparring with Bucky has really gotten to him, rendering him completely unable to sleep. And ever since Bucky started taking melatonin tablets, he's been sleeping even better than Steve. The only person who could possibly be up at this hour would be . . .

Stark.

_Still better than nothing,_ Steve decides with a shrug, and heads on over to the elevator. _Stewing alone won't be much help. At least Tony's . . . distracting._ Even if that's an outrageous understatement.

Steve rides the elevator down a floor to what Tony likes to call the Tinkering Palace. It has all the cool gadgetry he's designed for the Avengers, plus some extra projects of his own. No Iron Man suits, though; he's taken a vow to never put himself or Pepper in danger like that again – although Steve wonders how long that will last. Considering Tony's strange love of the Avengers Initiative, it's unlikely that the man will stay out of their conflicts for long. At this point, it's just a matter of time before he decides to break his promise and get out there.

Sure enough, Tony's in his private workshop, working on some project of his. Steve knocks politely before entering, and then closes the glass door behind him. It seals with a click and Steve is assaulted by the sound of some band trying to play music. He wrinkles his nose in disgust and says nothing – he's the one crashing the party this time, not Tony.

“What's up, Cap?” Stark asks without looking up from his work. It appears that he's working on . . . an Iron Man suit.

“I thought you gave up the suits,” Steve says, raising an eyebrow.

“I have. This . . . this is definitely not a suit,” he grunts, twisting a wrench with a sudden jerk. “This is closer to a Hammer drone. But less Hammer, more, well, intelligence. Jarvis, you working in there yet?”

A slit on the not-suit's mouth glows with electric light as it speaks in a metallic tone. “I seem to be, sir,” Jarvis says.

“Is it . . . a robot?” Steve asks uneasily. He's not the biggest fan of drones, especially not since the Insight collapse. If there's one thing he doesn't trust, it's the government – or private institutions, in this case – poking its head into people's private lives.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Artificial intelligence is the correct term,” he mutters, “but yes, you can call it a robot.”

Steve nods and takes a seat on a nearby workbench. He laces his fingers together and studies Stark as he works. He's got nothing better to do.

Tony looks up a few times, and eventually gives an exasperated sigh and leans back. “What's going on, bud?”

“Nothing. Please, continue.” Steve gestures at the robot.

“Uh-uh,” Tony says, wagging a finger and narrowing his eyes. “You're here because you want to talk. Not to watch me . . . tinker. So, I'm all yours.” He opens his arms wide to emphasize his willingness as a sympathetic ear. “What's up?”

Steve shrugs and looks away, and just listens as Tony gives up and begins to fiddle around with his robot again. _Good,_ Steve thinks. _He doesn't need to know about my problems, anyway._

“Heard you fighting with the Buckster earlier. Is that what's getting you?”

Steve frowns down at his shoes – how does everyone always know what's going on with him? “I'd rather not talk about it,” he mumbles.

“Gotta let it out sometime.”

“So Sam tells me.”

“If you say so,” Tony says reluctantly. “Is anything else eating you?”

Steve sighs. Stark's not the most trustworthy guy, but judging from what Natasha's told him, he's the only other person in the Tower who's been in a situation like this before – that is, completely at the mercy of the Black Widow. “Natasha had dirt on you at some point, right?” Steve asks wearily, looking up at Tony.

“Doesn't she have dirt on everyone?” Tony replies, deftly avoiding the question.

“I heard she was your personal assistant once.”

Tony shoots him a look. “What's your point?”

“She probably had something . . . personal on you, right?” Steve sighs again, running a hand through his short hair. “Well, I seem to be in the same sort of . . . situation.”

Stark laughs in near-maniacal glee. “Oh, this has gotta be good,” he chuckles. “You? You, of all people? Good, pure Captain America has a deep, dark secret?”

Steve grits his teeth and tries not to roll his eyes. “Luckily,” he says drily, “Natasha and I are friends, so she isn't going to do anything about it. I hope.” Then a horrible, terrible thought dawns on him. “Oh, no,” he groans softly, and puts his head in his hands.

She always did love to play the matchmaker.

_What if she . . . ? Oh, God, that would be awful._

“Hey, buddy, it's okay,” Tony says, and he actually sounds sincere. How surprising. He comes over and lays a hand on Steve's shoulder. “Are you _sure_ she knows?” he asks, his dark eyes concerned. “I'm pretty sure half the time she only _acts_ like she knows.”

Steve thinks back to their conversation on the phone. “I'm pretty sure I gave it clear away,” he groans, cringing at the thought of what Natasha might try and do. It could ruin everything. And even if she thinks she's doing him a favor, well, she isn't. He isn't that sort of person. And neither is Bucky.

“Well, what's the worst that could happen?” Tony asks, trying to be optimistic. “It's not like the world is gonna end, is it?”

“No,” Steve admits grudgingly. “But it wouldn't be good. And it would be . . . terribly awkward.”

“'Terribly awkward,'” Tony echoes with a snort. “You sound like a real grandpa now.”

“Thanks,” Steve replies with biting sarcasm. What was he thinking, telling _Stark_ about his problems?

“But seriously, if Romanoff likes you, she won't put you in any sort of danger, or whatever it is you're dealing with,” Tony replies. “It's not like she's seducing you, right?”

Steve laughs. He'd like to see her try – or maybe not. She was more than proficient at such things and he wouldn't like to put himself at odds with Barton, whom he's sure could kill him in less than a minute. “Definitely not,” he says.

Tony frowns. “You know,” he says slowly, “I could be a lot more helpful if you'd just tell me what we're dealing with here. I can keep a secret, right, Jarvis?”

The robot next to Stark sounds like it's laughing.

“Goddamned AI,” Tony mutters, beginning to fiddle with the wiring. “Too much “intelligence” and not enough “artificial” at this point.”

They sit there quietly for a few moments, Tony tinkering, Steve deliberating. He supposes that he _could_ tell Stark, but what if he takes Natasha's side? Starts _helping_ her play matchmaker? That would spell nothing short of complete disaster.

But some part of him is excited. No doubt Natasha would be very cautious in her pursuits to secure Steve a relationship partner, and maybe, just maybe, she would actually be doing him a favor. His slip could possibly be the best thing that ever happened to him.

_What am I thinking?_ he demands of himself. _We're_ fighting, _for God's sake. He's not going to . . . Natasha could never . . . Hell, we're not even_ talking _right now, what could_ she _possibly accomplish?_

And then the alarms start blaring.

The lights turn red and flash repeatedly, and Steve can see out in the hallway that the glass windows overlooking the city are quickly being obscured by automated sliding metal covers. Bewildered, Steve stumbles up from his seat. “What the—”

“Sir, there seems to be a security breach,” Jarvis says in an almost bored voice. “Three helicopters are approaching quickly from the north and have met our clearance requests with radio silence. The Tower is in lockdown mode and the guards have been alerted to secure the ground floor. How shall I further proceed?”

“How are the other bots?” Tony asks, standing up and brushing himself off. He's talking into his headset now, and he motions for Steve to follow him. They quickly exit the workshop and head for the stairs, the elevator access having been cut off by the lockdown protocol.

“Ready enough, but I suggest leaving the prototypes in storage,” Jarvis replies helpfully.

“I want one escorting Pepper out,” Tony says immediately. “Wh—”

An explosion rocks the building, and Steve and Tony look at each other with wide eyes.

“Where was that?” Stark demands of his headset.

“They've dismantled the roof defenses,” Jarvis replies. “They appear to be attacking from the top, although two of the helicopters have positioned themselves to begin shooting the windows. Shall I—”

“Send the rest of the bots up to the 93rd floor,” Tony hisses, and then looks at Steve. “Better suit up, Cap,” he says, cracking a grin.

“Thanks,” Steve replies with a tense nod, and then sprints to the stairs. He takes them two at a time, hurrying to get to Sam and Bucky. Pepper will be fine, he's sure of it, and it's a good thing that Maria isn't here. _Although we could use her aim,_ he thinks wistfully, and then bursts through to the 92 nd floor.

Sam and Bucky are standing in the common room, looking alarmed and still slightly sleepy.

“What's going on?” Sam demands. “Do I need the Falcon?”

“Get it,” Steve orders. “Bucky, with me. We'll get the suits and weapons. Meet us back here, Sam.”

“On it.” Sam dashes down the hallway to his room.

Steve leads Bucky to the closet where he keeps a spare suit and sets of body armor, as well as tactical clothing. There's a small rack of guns, and out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees Bucky light up at the sight of them. He hasn't gotten any action – of that sort – since the Potomac. The soldier in him is probably itching for a chance to shoot someone.

Steve hurriedly strips down his underclothes and slides into his suit, and then tosses Bucky some body armor and a set of tactical clothes. They change in a rush and lace up their boots. Steve grabs Sam's gear and his shield, ready to go, but Bucky's still staring at the gun rack.

_Please, let him not have a flashback right now,_ Steve thinks. “Buck? You good?”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, his voice gruff. “Can I . . . ?”

“Grab whatever you need,” Steve says. “Meet you in the common.”

Bucky's lips twist into a somewhat predatory grin as he chooses his weapons, and Steve leaves before he can change his mind. He doesn't want Bucky fighting and getting hurt, but Steve knows that their best chance of survival is if everyone who's able does what they can. And Bucky can fight.

Steve throws Sam's stuff at him, and finishes securing his gear while he waits. Sam straps on the Falcon and looks at Steve expectantly, ready for orders.

When Bucky rushes into the room, he looks dangerous.

He's dressed in all-black tactical gear, outfitted with heavy body armor, and armed with an assault rifle, several knives, and a few submachine guns strapped on his back to boot. He looks just like he did on the street in D.C. – ready to kill.

Something stirs in Steve's chest. Whether it's a painful pang at remembering how lost and broken Bucky was before or if it's more-than-mild attraction to the all-black ensemble and confident look on his best friend's face, Steve doesn't know. And now is not the time to stop and find out.

Steve's throat is suddenly dry. He swallows and asks, “You good?”

Bucky simply nods, releasing the safety of his assault rifle.

“Let's move.”

They charge up the stairwell and burst into a back hallway of the 93rd floor. It seems like Pepper's already been evacuated, and Steve gives the waiting squad of Tony's robots an uneasy glance. No doubt they'll do a fine job of protecting the Tower, but he doesn't quite trust an AI's judgement in a situation like this – at least not yet.

“Tony? Are you there?” Steve asks quietly.

The lead robot turns to Steve. “Yep,” Tony's voice says through its unmoving mouth. “Looks like we're dealing with some HYDRA renegades, judging by their appearances. They'll be coming down through the roof somewhere, probably in this hallway.”

And sure enough, the ceiling overhead begins to crack, plaster falling to the floor around them. The HYDRA agents are breaking through with some sort of drilling device.

“Speak of the devil,” Sam mutters, drawing one of his sidearms. “You got a game plan, Cap?”

Steve nods – he'd begun forming it the minute he felt the building begin to quake. “Once they break through, we drive them back and focus on retaking the roof. Bucky, you defend the opening; don't let anyone get past into the Tower. Sam, once we've gotten onto the roof, you take off and deal with the two other choppers, and then swing back for the third. I'll get the guys coming at us, flanked by Stark's robot things. If we get pushed back into the building, stay away from windows – the helicopters will focus their aims there.”

Bucky and Sam nod determinedly. It's a pretty solid plan, considering Steve came up with it just while getting dressed to defend Stark Tower.

The drilling noise is getting louder – the HYDRA guys are closer to breaking through.

Steve turns to the robot controlled directly by Tony. “Hey!” he shouts over the noise. “Send some guys up on the roof with us, got it?”

“Done,” Stark replies. “They'll follow your lead.”

Steve's about to thank Tony when the ceiling at the far end of the hall comes crashing down. Steve hefts his shield and runs towards the men jumping down from the hole, Sam and Bucky at his side.

He gets in the first slam of his shield before the agents even have time to aim at him, knocking the man out instantly. He takes the next guy out with a quick kick in the kneecap and then a strike of his shield against the man's head. From there on, it's a matter of defending himself against a hail of bullets, getting up close and throwing a few kicks and punches, and checking to make sure that Sam and Bucky are holding up. So far, Sam seems to be getting in solid shots and Bucky – well, he's downright lethal.

For both him and Steve, fighting is automatic.

Which means that the steady rhythm of grunts and punches and bullets flying through the air becomes no more than a lull, a dull buzz in his brain, while Steve tackles the real questions. His adrenaline surge has erased all earlier panic that clouded his mind, and now he's calm enough to wonder _why_ the HYDRA agents are here.

They're the bad guys, obviously. But they wouldn't attack Stark Tower out of revenge. No, they're smarter than that.

They're after Bucky.

And at that thought Steve stumbles. Accidentally gives a HYDRA agent an opening. The man aims and Steve closes his eyes, knowing it's about to end, when—

Bucky takes the shot. And Bucky never misses.

The man falls to the ground, his gun clattering to the floor next to him. Steve looks back at Bucky and resists giving him the customary salute that meant “thank you” back in World War II. Bucky doesn't need another painful flashback right now. That could be catastrophic.

Soon they've taken care of all of the guys on the floor, and there seems to be a break in the agents dropping down on them from above.

Luckily, the ceiling here is low enough for Steve to jump straight up and catch the edge of the hole. He drags himself up onto the roof, and hears Bucky and Sam do the same behind him as he surveys the area.

The chopper has landed – bad move on HYDRA's part, since it's easier to capture that way. But they probably weren't expecting the whole crowd they're facing now. There's a team of guys – only about ten or so, but all heavily armed and definitely wearing Kevlar. Steve, Bucky, and Sam will have to either knock them out or shoot them in the head if they want to get rid of these agents.

There's a larger, scarier-looking guy in the back, who Steve gathers is the team leader of the HYDRA group. That's the one Steve will have to take out.

“Change of plan,” he mutters to Sam and Bucky as the two groups face each other, weighing their opponents. “Sam, take out only one chopper and then get back here. Bucky, you get in there with me – forget about the 93rd floor. Stark's robots will take care of it.” Then he calls back to the hole in the roof. “Tony!” he yells. “Get the other helicopters!”

He doesn't wait for a reply, but makes a signal to Sam and Bucky. And then the real battle begins.

Sam takes off, the Falcon unfolding on his back. He takes out one HYDRA agent with a well-placed shot before he disappears over the side of the building to do battle with a helicopter most likely equipped with several mounted machine guns.

Bucky and Steve sprint into the waiting throng of agents, Bucky alternating between shooting and knifing his adversaries, and Steve throwing the men off balance with punches, kicks, and hits from his vibranium shield. They work well together, Steve disarming the agents so that Bucky can end them with a fatal wound. Behind them they hear Tony's robots take off for the other helicopter, but a few stay on the roof and fire explosives at the enemies at the edge of the brawl.

“I'm going for that guy!” Steve calls out to Bucky, gesturing at the leader of the group.

“I'll cover you!” Bucky yells back, his cybernetic arm powering up as he snaps a man's neck. He releases the dead body with a raw yell and goes on to the next guy, this time with a gun drawn. He's completely vicious in the way he fights, dealing dirty blows and taking HYDRA agents out with startlingly brutal efficiency.

It's now how he used to fight. The sniper, the gunman at Steve's side who would rather fall back and take a good shot than get all up in the bloody action. But Steve doubts that Bucky really enjoys any of this. There's no grace to the way he fights now, not like a single bullet from afar taking out a single man.

_He really should talk to Barton sometime,_ Steve thinks to himself as he charges at the leader of the team. _They might bond over marksmanship or something._

Steve slams his shield into the guy with enough force to rattle his own teeth. The man staggers back, but doesn't look all too surprised. He must have been expecting a battle to the death with Captain America.

Too bad it isn't really Steve's style. Although he could make an exception for the guys that twisted and tortured Bucky into the husk of a man that was the Winter Soldier.

Steve grits his teeth and focuses his energy into his punches and kicks. He takes a few, as well, and grunts in pain whenever the leader manages to land a good one on him. He just has to keep the guy from drawing his gun on him, which, judging by the HYDRA agent's stance, he's dying to do. End it quickly, then drag Steve's lifeless body back to HYDRA headquarters as a trophy. Look who killed Captain America.

Well, Steve isn't going to give him that satisfaction.

But this guy is strong, even against a genetically-modified supersoldier. He must be at least 6'5, and his muscles bulge underneath his body armor. He strikes Steve right in the gut and Steve goes flying back, landing hard on the cement roof.

Wheezing to catch the breath that's been knocked out of him, Steve staggers to his feet to see the HYDRA agent aiming at him with two guns. Over-the-top and showy. Steve hates it when these people do that.

He expects a good line from the man, one last gloating sneer. And sure enough, the guy begins to open his mouth to, no doubt, insult Steve and the government and whatever else – when a bullet catches him in the abdomen.

Steve looks back to see Bucky reloading with a grim look on his face. “Finish it,” Bucky growls. “I've got the rest.”

And he does. The remaining men are quickly being subdued by Tony's robots, and Steve can see overhead that Sam is swooping back from his mission. The bright explosions illuminating the rooftop are the remains of the helicopters dying in midair.

They've won.

Steve approaches the leader of the HYDRA team, who lies dying on his back. He gasps for every breath, but only glares at Steve when he crouches down next to him. He doesn't try to fight. He knows that the battle has been lost.

Despite the pain he's in, the leader manages to gasp out, “Crossbones sends his regards.” He coughs out blood that will stain Steve's uniform, but at this point he doesn't care.

“Who the hell is Crossbones?” Steve demands with a frown.

The man just grins a sickening, bloodstained smile. “Hail HYDRA,” he whispers, and bites off one of his own teeth.

Steve turns away in disgust as the man begins to foam at the mouth. So they're still using the same suicide tactics as they had been in the Forties. There are dangerous fanatics in every century.

It's suddenly quiet on the roof. The remains of men and robots litter the ground, bleeding and sparking. The rest of Tony's bots have begun to file back into the building for repairs, although a few break off to scour the rest of the area for possible second waves of attack. But Steve can feel deep in his bones that it's over. HYDRA's got nothing left to hit them with – at least for the time being. They will not strike again tonight.

They want Bucky. But why? Do they want the Winter Soldier back under their command? Or do they want James Buchanan Barnes dead so that he won't spill their secrets?

_Are_ there HYDRA secrets buried deep in Bucky's head?

Sam alights on the roof and waves wearily to Steve. “Catch you later,” he murmurs tiredly, patting Steve on the back before heading back inside.

Steve nods, and then looks to his best friend. Bucky looks beat-up, and Steve knows he probably looks worse. Bucky can more than fend for himself, and Steve feels a pang of sadness at that. Bucky is once again independent of Steve – and probably even more capable, he has to admit.

But then Bucky smiles. Real, pure. “We did it,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, feeling himself begin to loosen up once again. “We did.”

And in that moment he realizes that he has nothing to prove to Bucky. They are a team, and it doesn't matter who's stronger individually. They are strong  _as a team._ And that's what counts.

“Hey.” Bucky's voice is thick when he speaks up. “I'm . . . I'm sorry about before.”

Their fight. “Me, too,” Steve says. “I shouldn't have—”

“It's okay.”

They look at each other for a few more moments. It's still a bit awkward between them, but Steve can feel it fading away fast. They know what the future will be like now, and this battle is proof of it – fighting side-by-side against their enemies, putting all their differences and fights and feelings aside so that they can be the best they can be. And that only happens when they're together. The inseparable team, Captain America and the Winter Soldier.

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes.


End file.
